The Secrets of Danu Talis
by LUNAticX
Summary: It started with an ordinary mission to rid the world of nuclear weapons. Then, as Edward disappeared and became separated from Alphonse, they imparted on their own adventures. However, their roads weren't exactly facing different directions. But how exactly did an immortal alchemist fit into this, and what horrible secret lay in wait for the Elric brothers?
1. I: Prologue

**Hello! This is my first crossover, and I've chosen the Fullmetal Alchemist and The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel universes to collide and destroy each other. LOL just joking.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA or SINF.**

**Enjoy! (This is just a prologue!)**

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><p>"<em>Sorry, Al. This is one trip that I have to make on my own. Don't look so sad. I'll be back before you know it! You know I never go anywhere with you, right? Just wait for me. I'll definitely come back!<em>"

Alphonse Elric stooped low and studied the tide of the beach. It ebbed and flowed smoothly, pushing back the sands. He picked at the miniature pieces of rock, breaking down their components, an alchemic array bright in his mind.

Three days ago, his brother, Edward, had disappeared.

It was 1923 in current time, and he was 13-years-old. Last week, he and Edward had arrived in America, searching for the uranium bomb. After hours of chasing after it, they somehow ended up down south, in the Gulf of Mexico. The bomb had mysteriously disappeared, and when the night came to head back up north, Edward had gone.

He had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

If alchemy was somehow possible on this side of the Gate, Alphonse would have used it to scour the globe for any sign of his brother. But it was impossible. Alchemy was never going to work here, so why bother? It had only been two months since he had come into this world, and he had missed his ability to perform it.

"Where are you, Brother?" he asked the silence. He wasn't expecting it to answer.

It was a hot afternoon, and he boiled under his travelling coat. The oceans were bright and blue, and the sky was clear. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary . . . so where had Edward gone? The sea bore no omen of his brother's demise.

The last time they were together was on this very beach. While he waited at the shore, Edward had gone off with a guide to the open waters. All he said to Alphonse was that he had a hunch about something. He never returned that night.

Al thought that he had an accident—a freak storm had hit or maybe their boat ran out of gas and died, so they were forced to row to the nearest body of land. The next two days he had spent walking the coast, from one end to the next, in search of his brother—to see if he had washed ashore somewhere nearby.

He wasn't.

So now Alphonse had returned to the very spot where Edward disappeared to get some sense or idea on where he'd gone. Just what kind of hunch did Ed have? Is that what led him to his disappearance?

"I'm powerless here," he murmured, looking at his hands.

He lingered at the beach a while longer, and when the sun was beginning to set, he decided to head back to the hotel he and Ed were staying at. In the lobby, he greeted the front desk and proceeded up the stairs. The room they had booked was number 7 on the second floor. He produced a key and unlocked the door.

He stepped into the room and the smell of musty books hit him. All around the room, books littered the floor, the chairs, the tables, even the kitchen counters. They were books about alchemy, about modern science, chemistry, biology, and world history. The two brothers spent a while reading them all. Ed, of course, read as fast as ever, but Alphonse took it slower, drawing all the information in and remembering them.

Something struck him as odd.

Edward had been reading a book a few days ago. The weird thing about it was . . . it was a book on mythology.

Edward was and did many things. He was a short-tempered midget, the youngest State Alchemist in Amestrian history, the first ever person to perform a _full body _human transmutation . . . and he _never_ trusted mythology. He was a scientist; all he would do is laugh in the face of it. He would never believe such a thing or resort to it. _Ever._

_So why start now?_ Alphonse thought to himself.

It was more than strange. Science was to be trusted, not some legend or myth. Why did Ed suddenly start reading that book, and then going off somewhere without his brother? He never left anywhere or kept secrets from Alphonse. They were like two halves of the same whole. Ed _always_ told him what was on his mind.

Alphonse had to admit he felt rather stung by this revelation. But a small voice at the back of his mind told him that the only reason why Edward didn't tell him anything was because he was protecting him. If Ed had told him . . . that would have brought some danger that Al couldn't see. But what was so dangerous about something from a mythological book?

Alphonse let out an indignant huff and proceeded to search for that infuriating book. If Ed was reading it so intensely, it _had_ to be important.

He pushed aside textbooks and journals, newspaper clippings and articles. He dug under coaches and peered under tables. How hard could it be to find _one _book? Well, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that that book was the only mythological book in this room. It was going to take ages.

Instead, Al decided to clean the place up.

He went around and gathered the books, stacking them in order, sorting them into categories. He presented each finished pile to the center table, labeling each group. The last book he found under a lone chair turned out to be the book he was looking for.

He opened the novel and skimmed through it. The book stopped flipping near the end of a book, where a bookmark was precisely put. The slip of paper that marked the place said: **Danu Talis; 10,000; Nick Fleming**

"Who's Nick Fleming?" Al asked aloud.

He was quite used to asking the thin air questions, now. If he didn't, he was afraid he would go insane.

The young Elric proceeded to read the text. It simply said something about a legendary city called Atlantis and how it sank beneath the waves in one night. Al sat back, unimpressed.

"What's so important about that?" he grumbled. Then he flipped the page, and his heart gave a giant leap.

There was a picture—no, a map. The map showed exactly where he was, in the Gulf of Mexico. The land formed a giant crescent around an area where land should have been. Then there was a zoom-in for the area now filled with water. A picture with a giant circle and intricate designs—geometry incomprehensible to the normal human, shapes completely impossible to form, yet there it was.

Al now knew why his brother had disappeared, and why this page in the book was so important.

He had gone to find the Lost City of Atlantis, Danu Talis, to search for the giant circle. It was right in front of him, and he never knew. Edward had gone to see exactly _why_ there was a huge transmutation circle etched into the rocks under the churning sea.

But the question stilled remained: Why, exactly, did a seemingly mythical city from a ten thousand years ago have a transmutation circle carved into its foundations, when alchemy ceased to exist and never worked on this side of the Gate? Neither of these two things should even _be _here. But it was.

And yet, there was more. Who was this Nick Fleming character, and why had Ed felt such a compelling need to write this man's name down on the paper?

Suppose this man knew something that Al didn't. Edward could have told Fleming and not him. Alphonse now knew what he had to do to find his brother. He had to track down this Nick Fleming, and demand to know what he knew.

If Ed had gone to find this Danu Talis all the way out at sea, something _had_ to have happened to him. Maybe he had succeeded, but his endeavours went wrong halfway. Alphonse was stuck between going out there and finding Ed for himself, or going to this Fleming man.

_It would be safer if you knew what you were dealing with,_ the reasonable Al told himself. _A book isn't going to help any, _he added, peering at the mythologies book. He doubted Ed went to sea to pull some stunt just because a book told him to. It was possible that Ed and 'Nick Fleming' knew each other.

_But I've never been away from Brother! There's no way he's met Fleming—let alone speak to him—when I've haven't!_ So maybe Ed had just heard of this man from somewhere. But where?

Alphonse skimmed through the other piles of books and brought one out on the history of alchemy of this world. Nick Fleming did sound familiar. He flipped to the chapter on the earliest forms of alchemy, and found a bunch of names. Loads of people who have been great alchemists were written down. He went down the list, but didn't find a Nick Fleming anywhere.

"It has to be an alias," Al concluded. He went through the list again, then for a third time. Then, his trailing finger stopped on a name. He was now sure on this man's identity. "Nicholas Flamel," he said aloud, tasting the name on his tongue. "He was a supposed alchemist of his time. Born in 1330 and died in 1418."

But that couldn't be right! _Nicholas Flamel_ was dead. There was no way Edward could talk to a dead man. He wasn't of use. So why was his name—well, alias—down on the sheet of paper? Why was it so important? Perhaps the man held a secret.

Alphonse flipped to the man's biography, and read it briefly. There was barely anything, just what he did during his youth, his dreams, his exploits, his apprentices. The information on alchemy that Flamel had knowledge of was simply too meager. Even a child from his side of the Gate—Amestris—was able to perform something like that.

"It's useless!" Al said, annoyed. "Nick Fleming has _got_ to be a different man! It just doesn't make sense."

But if Danu Talis had been in front of his nose the entire time, then this Nicholas Flamel—or Nick Fleming—had to be very close by as well. Ed wasn't that stupid. If something _did_ go wrong, he always had a back-up plan. He always left behind clues so Al would follow him and fix up his mistakes. That's how it has always been.

But Ed never left behind obvious clues. He was one for the puzzles and brain-teasers. Alphonse begged for this one time, that he would leave behind a straight-up clue, something that gave easy instructions to follow. But like always, Edward Elric had hidden them, and it was up to Al to find them.

"You never make it easy for me, Brother!" Alphonse complained.

_The clues aren't hidden far away,_ the voice at the back of his mind said. Strangely, it sounded just like Ed. _They're just hidden well. You just got to look for them very closely and carefully. Don't miss ANYTHING._

Rejuvenated with newfound determination, Al set to work. The longer he waited for Ed to show up, the smaller chance of him actually appearing. This wasn't something Ed could fix on his own; he needed help.

Edward wasn't going to walk alone anymore.

Alphonse was sure of that.

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><p><strong>Should I put up another chapter? Let me know!<strong>

**Edit: I'm in the process of rewriting everything up till chapter 9.**


	2. II: Amnesia?

**Hi, again! Here is chapter 2. It was a bit hard to write, but I hope it turns out right! ^_^**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA or SINF.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>Edward woke up really, really confused.<p>

First of all, he was lying on something hard and flat, and it hurt his back. His brain and muddled and somewhat retarded, but he knew his bed wasn't _that_ hard. And it wasn't that cold. Or wet. Wait—why was he wet and cold?

Second thing he noticed, and he didn't know why he didn't know this first, he couldn't breathe. Like, not one of those moments when you've had a really bad nightmare and you're out of breath—no! He couldn't breathe _at all_. He tried drawing a breath, but he felt as if Gluttony was sitting on his chest.

Ugh.

Third thing? When he opened his eyes, everything stung. He managed to hold them open for a few seconds, but all he saw was darkness with a light at the end. He briefly considered the idea of him dying as of the moment and 'seeing the light at the end of the tunnel' and 'going to heaven' or whatever. But there was just no way.

He would never be defeated that easily. And by what, for the life of him he couldn't remember.

He started hyperventilating. Of course, since he couldn't breathe, he choked on no air and a mass of carbon dioxide bubbled out of his mouth. His eyes shot open, and he reached out for something—someone. He only gripped rubble and felt the flat rock beneath him.

And then . . . It was then he realized he was _underwater_.

_Why am I underwater?_ he mentally shouted. _God, how can I be so stupid?_

First thing's first, he had to get out of here. He must have been down here for a while, breathing on nothing. He needed oxygen, fast. His brain was already beginning to shut down, if the not realizing he was underwater didn't say so first.

But . . . how?

Right. Curse his moronic stupidity. The rule of escaping the water was and always will be to head upwards. It was fairly common sense, and the human body's buoyancy naturally floated in that direction when in water.

He tried sitting up, but the pressure prevented him from doing so. He must have been really deep then, probably a few dozen feet below sea level—enough to kill him, but not enough to crush him. His auto-mail was beginning to feel the strain of the water pressure.

Summoning all of his strength, Edward willed himself to move, or flip over, anything. A few seconds later—though it felt like an eternity—he was face down on the flat rock. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he found himself staring at a giant transmutation circle.

His memory was foggy, but he did remember discovering this.

The fuzziness of his vision told him he had little time left before he passed out again. He had to do something. There was no way he was going to swim all the way to the surface. He couldn't. His auto-mail, though lighter now thanks to Winry's adjustments, weighed a ton in the water; it couldn't take the strain. So what was he supposed to do?

_What, what, what?_ he asked himself desperately. _What can I do?_ He slammed his hand down on the rock. _What can I do?_

His train of thought was abruptly stopped as the transmutation circle under him began to glow. Edward recoiled.

_What was that? Did I just . . . activate a . . ._

Scared he might cause something disastrous to happen, he cut the energy flow activating the circle, and the light died away. He suddenly had an idea the same time a distant memory came back to him. He remembered activating the transmutation circle before he passed out. Somehow he was able to perform alchemy.

How was that possible? This side of the Gate couldn't allow Alchemy!

_No time for that! I need air!_

He was beyond desperate now. If alchemy somehow worked with this transmutation circle, then alchemy was possible! He could transmute a pocket of air around himself by separating the oxygen from the water and converting the rest to hydrogen. It had to work.

It had to. He couldn't die, not like this.

Gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering, he brought his hands together with effort and connected them. The reaction was instantaneous. The shocks of alchemic lightning danced around the gloom, lighting up the dark and exposing him to the elements.

He held his hands outwards, the last of his energy draining from his body, and splayed his fingers. All the water around him separated their different atoms, the oxygen from the hydrogen, and then a bubble of air formed around him in a circle, as if he was trapped within an invisible globe.

Edward collapsed, gasping for breath.

It was a rough gamble, but it was worth it. He couldn't help smirking. Alchemy was working! It really was working—on this side of the Gate, too! He continued to hungrily suck in the wonderful thing that was air, its fumes filling his lungs and feeding him life. When his brain started to work again, he stopped panting like a oxygen-deprived fish, because his incessant breathing made his bubble of air smaller.

After a while, once he was sober again, he realized just how wrong everything seemed.

There couldn't possibly be a way he could perform alchemy. It was _impossible_. He had tried. So why was it suddenly working now? Something had to have happened that rendered it possible. All his memories were a blur. The only thing he could remember was activating the transmutation circle underneath him.

He didn't even now how he got to finding it.

Well, there was a vague image of him saying bye to Al—wait. Why was he saying goodbye to Alphonse? Was this thing—whatever it is—so important, that he had to leave his _brother _behind?

If only Al was here. He would make things clear. Sure, he'd smack Ed upside the head and yell at him for acting so dumb, but it's the thought that counts.

Ed felt alone. There had been countless times where he was without his brother, but this one time . . . he truly felt alone.

He shook his head, messing up his golden bangs. _No! Don't think about that. Concentrate—you need to CONCENTRATE, Edward._

"How did something like this," he murmured, tracing the lines of the circle with his flesh-and-blood finger, "come to be here? Alchemy doesn't exist on this side. At least, it shouldn't. So how . . . ?" He turned his head to the side, and squinted, trying to see farther into the water.

Sure enough, the lines did stretch around—for a couple of dozen yards, actually. It encircled him, and he guessed that he was right in the center of it.

"So it must be a pretty big one," he decided. "But what would they use such a huge circle for?"

Sacrifice? A ceremony? Maybe a simple decoration. It could be anything. But the people that made these lines looked like they knew what they were doing. So perhaps it was for some sort of complicated transmutation.

"But what would they transmute?" he asked no one in particular. Surely if this thing was totally underwater, something must have gone wrong with it. "Whatever they created must have decimated this plane."

He laid his palm onto the engravings and ran a quick diagnostic. The lines glowed, but there was no reaction. When Edward lifted his hand away from the rock, he knew that this circle hadn't been activated for millennia, except for a few minutes ago, when he did.

"So I guess something else destroyed this place," he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He crossed his legs, and stared at the circle, his eyes not really seeing anything. "Something else must have destroyed . . . "

He trailed off, a brief memory flashing through his mind. He cringed, grasping his throbbing head. A deep thudding pang invaded his mind and wracked on the base of his skull. He clenched his jaw. Maybe recalling lost memories wasn't such a good idea right now.

However, he concentrated on that fragment of his memory. He visualized a book. It looked like a rather old book; most of its pages were torn and/or ripping. He recognized the old tome, but he couldn't read anything off of it. Trying just made his head hurt more. The memory faded in a flash of white and he had forgotten it again.

Edward was disturbed, to put it simply.

"What the hell is wrong with my head?" he asked. Why couldn't he remember anything?

Sighing, he stood to his full height, and tugged at his soaking wet sleeves. The first thing he wanted to find out was exactly what the transmutation circle looked like. That was a difficult task because he would have to walk around with the air bubble with him, and he couldn't move it. Air went where it wanted to. He had no power over it.

His second option was less tricky, but it involved defacing a huge slab of rock that could possibly change history as we would know it.

He shrugged. "Eh. That's about all the shit I give."

Ed clapped his hands and pressed them to the circle, and then there were tremors and shakes as the rock beneath his feet began to rise from the sea floor. He braced himself as the transmutation activated, sending him and the rock shooting skywards towards the—well, you know . . . sky.

Halfway through the ascent, the air bubble around his body popped due to too much disturbance, and he was once again washed with the cold, freezing liquid. But that was no matter. He was almost to the top; he could hold his breath for those seconds until then.

The rock continued to rise, the alchemic lightning flashing wildly about him. A few feet just below the surface, bubbles of air rushed past him, and he felt the sudden need to grin maniacally. He didn't know why. He just felt like it.

_3…_

_2…_

_1…_

He broke the surface, the water around him exploding into tiny droplets. He shaded his face as rays of sunshine blinded his eyes. A millisecond later, the water that just exploded came raining back down on him, and the light seemed to become brighter as it reflected off every individual bead of water.

Edward was standing on an ancient transmutation circle, right in the center of said rock.

He looked at it, twisting his body this way and that, doing a complete 360, trying to get a good overview of the entire structure. He couldn't have possibly be man-made. It was much too detailed and precise. But it couldn't have been a natural occurence either. It was _much_ too perfect.

The only thing he got out of it was that it was completely massive. If he wanted to scour every bit of this thing, it was going to take him _hours_.

"I don't have that time," he sighed, running a hand through his dripping ponytail. "I have to get back to Al."

He'd come back later. There was a time and place for everything, but he had to get back to his brother to tell him that he was alright and that he didn't go missing or even dead. It would be funny if he did.

Edward Elric didn't go missing. That was the rule.

And if he did, it was for good reason, like saving the world from a bastardized homunculus with a even bigger god complex than Roy Fucking Mustang.

In the distance, he spotted a small speedboat that only had enough room for two. He started to walk towards it, his wet boots making small sloshing noises in the puddles, his metal leg clanking awkwardly loud. He wondered if there was anyone inside, and if they were willing to give him a ride.

He was never one for depending on others, but how else was he supposed to get back to land? What was he supposed to do—make a huge stone bridge right across the ocean? Uh, no. That would freak people out and start another conquering of some other world all over again.

He was searching for the Uranium bomb, and then destroying it hopefully. He couldn't afford to draw the unwanted attention onto himself. Walking on top of water like some Jesus wannabe wasn't going to help any. Suddenly summoning a walkway made out of ocean bedrock wasn't going to do you any favors, either.

When he reached the speedboat, he was shocked to see that there was no one manning it. There was abandoned scuba gear, an abandoned backpack, and a tank of oil to refuel the motor engine. There wasn't much else.

Edward searched the area. "Where's the owner?" he wondered. "He couldn't have gotten up and walked off . . . There's nowhere to go."

There was a good chance the sailor fell overboard and drowned or something. Wasn't there a hurricane on the coast the other day? Ed guessed the guy wouldn't miss his boat if he did drown. He climbed aboard the boat and settled into the seat. His eyes travelled to the backpack propped up against the motor.

He picked it up and rummaged through its contents. A small notebook with a felt binding caught his eyes and he took it out. Something about it seemed rather . . . familiar. He read its pages, and he scrunched his eyebrows together in deep thought.

A few moments later, he unconsciously took out a notebook the same size as the one from the bag and compared the notes. His eyes widened.

Another vague memory flashed before his eyes the same time he realized that the bag and its contents were _his_.

He tucked the two notebooks safely into the bag, and surveyed the giant transmutation circle before him. He looked regretfully at the large stone before clapping his hands together and slamming them onto its smooth surface.

The reaction stretched all the way down the structure and started deconstructing at the bottom, returning the rock to its previous state. The process continued, the circle sinking back to the bottom, before the light died away and the ancient secret once again returning to its dark depths.

Edward sighed and started the motor engine, pulling on the string a couple of times before it roared to life.

He turned on the throttle and sped away, turning his back on the transmutation array.

As he steadied his steering, he took out the notebook from earlier that he had gotten out of his coat and peered at the words. He knew they were coded—he had coded them to prevent any unwanted readers if it was to fall into the wrong hands—and they were handwritten in Amestrian, his messy scrawl neat but illegible.

If anybody did bypass the code, they'd have to translate his language, and that was impossible. Amestrian didn't exist on this planet.

He smirked as he read the last thing he had written down.

It was the longitude and latitude for where the transmutation circle precisely was, coded as a recipe for chicken pot pie.

After he found Al, he was going to return. He was very sure of that.

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><p>About an hour later, he had finally hit land, though it felt much longer than that.<p>

Just as the speedboat touched the beach he had just embarked from, he jumped off of it and landed on the sand, wringing his trench coat dry. He shouldered his backpack and set off for the hotel. Hopefully Al was there with some food, waiting for him. _Man_, he was hungry.

He noted that several buildings and shops were out of place, but he waved it off, blaming it on his faulty memory.

Leaving the beach behind, he crossed the road, and stopped dead center of it. No . . . No. Everything _was_ out of place. He thought it was his mind playing tricks on him, but everything—the buildings, streets, lampposts (if you could call those lampposts; they were giant metal signs holding three lights in place: one red, next yellow, then green)—seemed to have literally changed.

They weren't what he knew them to be. They were much, much more . . . What was the word? Flashy? No. Advanced? Yes, that was the word. He stared at it curiously for a few more seconds before a loud, obnoxious beeping snapped him out of his musings.

His head turned left and he noticed a shiny, red vehicle honking at him. He looked at it, confused. Even the automobiles were more flashy—sorry, _advanced_—than he'd known them to be. Last time he checked, this country didn't have many cars. It was America that had them. But here it was, backing up more cars behind it.

_Why is he honking at me?_ Ed thought.

"Hey, idiot!" the driver from the red car jeered. "Get off the street! You blind? I could ram you over right now!"

That man carried a strange South American accent to his speech, and Edward didn't like the way he was talking to him just now.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he shouted back.

"You're holding up traffic!" the same driver said. "You're lucky I'm the one talking to you, kid. Others aren't so kind to foreigners. Now move it! I've got someplace to be and someone to see!"

Edward stepped aside and let the driver past. As the other cars came up to him, the people inside looked at him strangely, as if he was a mental patient from an asylum. He glared back at them, and he even gave one driver the finger when the man stared at him for far too long.

At least these weird people understood _that._

They looked at him like he was crazy. As far as he could tell, everything else had changed, not him. He was the same Edward from his life in Amestris, to living in Munich for two years with his father. He was still the same after two months of hunting down the Uranium bomb.

_Which reminds me,_ he thought. _I should be looking for it before the Americans get their hands on it and destroy Japan. Damn . . . can't let that happen._

He crossed the remainder of the freeway and onto the sidewalk. There, he continued down the road and turned a corner to where he hoped the hotel that he was staying at was. To his luck, it was, and it didn't look a day old. Well, it could use some touch-up, but nothing else had changed.

On his way there, a couple passed by and stared at him, whispering behind hushed voices. He caught most of what they were saying (they were terrible whisperers), and he clenched his fists. It had been two years now . . . yet he was still sensitive about his height. (But rest assured, he _was_ getting taller. Just little-by-little.)

He wanted to whirl around and yell at them that he was not short, but he decided against it. He had something else to do at the moment, but _someone_ was definitely going to pay for that insult.

There were some comments about his eyes and the length of his hair, but he guessed what most people were wondering was why a 15-year-old kid ("I'm _eighteen, _dammit!) was wondering the streets wearing a long, dripping wet coat when it was the middle of summer.

On normal circumstances, yes, that would seem weird. If Ed was stuck wearing a coat like that on the hottest day of the year, he would definitely take a swim with them on. But he had his own reasons. One, it was to hide his auto-mail. If people from his world freaked out at the sight of it, people from here would too. Second, it wasn't his idea to almost drown twenty feet under the Atlantic Ocean. So, he didn't think anyone could blame him.

Side-stepping into a nearby bush, he clapped his hands and transmuted himself dry. The static travelled from his toes, tickling them and making him almost laugh, all the way up to and out his hair, making it stand up on its ends. He smoothed it down and continued on his way.

He entered the hotel, noting the new swivel doors, and stepped into the lobby. He immediately went up to the front desk, and stopped before it, wondering why there was a different person standing there.

_Maybe they work in different shifts_, he reasoned.

"How can I help you?" the woman said, turning around on the spot. She spotted Edward and gasped, staring at his eyes.

In turn, he rolled them, sighing at the immaturity of certain people. The man from earlier didn't question him on his heretics; he was quiet and polite and knew his own business when he needed to. But this woman seemed the opposite.

"I'd like to check in, please," Ed said, forcing the please through his teeth. He added, "My brother's waiting for me—room 7, on the second floor. His name is Alphonse Elric."

"And yours?" the woman inquired. He saw her nametag and saw that it was Paola.

"Edward," he replied shortly.

She nodded mutely and scrolled through the directory in her hands. After a while, she shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir. I cannot find your name, nor your brother's, anywhere in this list. Perhaps you've mistaken this place for some other."

Edward shook his head really slowly. "I am pretty sure I'm staying here. Can you check the list again?"

She complied and did a quick read-over. "I'm afraid it's the same thing," she said apologetically. "If you know where you're staying and forgot the address, I'd be happy to point you in the direction."

He huffed. "It's fine. I know where it is."

Paola smiled. "Then good day to you, sir."

He walked away from the desk and out into the open air again. He scratched his head, wondering how exactly the hell happened back there.

Apparently, neither his nor Alphonse's names were in the directory. He was pretty sure Al had checked in for them both when they first came to the hotel. They saw their names being written down by the man. Maybe he misplaced it and Paola got the wrong pad.

Edward shook his head. No. That wasn't the kind of mistake a person could make.

He didn't understand it. It was as if he didn't—never existed in this world at all. Everything seemed suddenly very foreign and strange. The vehicles and technology overall confounded him. Every building and monument was out of place. Only the ocean seemed ever timeless.

"What's going on?" he wondered.

What really scared him, though, was that Al was gone.

If he wasn't at the hotel, then where could he have gone? He couldn't have packed up and left. His name would have still been in the directory, him being checked out. There was a slight possibility—a small one—that he had been kidnapped by somebody.

But according to the national security, Alphonse Elric didn't exist. He didn't have a file. Nobody could have known about him, and tracked him down.

And yet . . . there was still something strange nagging Ed at the back of his mind. It wasn't just the fact that the architecture was out of place—him being out of place more than anything else—but something seemed seriously, _very_ wrong.

He looked down as a newspaper flew by his feet, the wind carrying it away. He bent down and snatched it before it blew away forever, reading it over slowly. He suddenly froze, one thing catching his eye.

The date said: **Friday, May 31, 2011**

He groaned. "This has _got_ to be the worse bad luck day in history."

That couldn't be right! He was right in 1923 before he left shore a few hours ago. There was no way—absolutely no way.

A small voice told him the opposite, however. It's true, face it, it said, or have the advanced technology and incomprehensible contraptions told you nothing? Why have things changed so much in so little time? Why is your name not in the directory anymore?

"But there couldn't have been a way," he argued himself. He held the newspaper limply in his hand, scarcely believing what he just saw. "There just couldn't have." He looked back down at the date again, golden eyes narrowed in despair and horror.

Somehow, he had landed 88 years into the future.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews are greatly appreciated! Oh, and I made some minor adjustments with the date to better fit the current timeline. Everything's falling into place. Hehehe...<strong>

**Edit: In the process of rewriting...**


	3. III: Mission Impossible PT 1

**What's up, people? Okay, here's the next chapter, and let me tell you that it was hard to write. I'll admit it. I had to do a crap load of research. If anything is wrong, point it out for me. If you're totally fine with the mistakes... well, that's good because I don't want to fix them. Anything that you don't recognize, I made up. This is part 1 of 2.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Library of Congress (the U.S. does), FMA, and SINF.**

**Enjoy deliciously.**

* * *

><p>Alphonse had packed up immediately the following night.<p>

During one of his searches for the countless books he and Edward had lain about, he encountered a small pad of paper with peculiar writing on it. It was one of those normal, inconspicuous sheets of lined paper you could write your recommendations to the hotel on.

Eyebrows knitted together, he approached the notepad and read it over. It looked like a reminder to the writer, kind of like a grocery shopping list. It occupied only three words: **Hide last name**

Al rubbed the back of his neck mindlessly. "Hide last name? What's he trying to say here?"

He tucked the note away instead. Maybe it could help him on his mission—even if it was only three words. Anything that Ed wrote down, no matter how little, counted for lots. His travelling journal was one good example.

Alphonse shuffled to the bathroom, and found a pile of books sitting on the counter. Ed liked to take a bath reading, too.

Sighing, he took those and headed back to the living room, tucking them in a suitcase the Elric brothers always lugged around. Edward never cared where he left books. Most of the time he forgot he put them there. Alphonse was always the one to clean up after him, and to put things back into the luggage when they were leaving a place.

He was always astounded by the amounts the thing could carry. Even with all those books, it still managed to close. (Of course, Al had to sit on top of it to get it to fasten, but still.)

The youngest Elric took one last look at the room to see if he missed anything, and deciding there wasn't, he swung the suitcase over his shoulder and headed out the door. He made sure to lock it, and then he proceeded down the stairs to check out.

At the front desk, Julio, the man working at the desk, handed him the clipboard, and he signed off his name.

"I hope you enjoyed your stay here," Julio said, smiling warmly.

"Thank you," Alphonse replied.

"Hey," the man said, suddenly recalling a memory, "didn't you have another person with you? A brother perhaps?"

"Yes. Edward," he replied, approaching the situation cautiously. "He's my brother." _And he's missing_.

"Oh," Julio said. "Because I was worried about your safety. This isn't the time for a young man such as you to be wondering around all by yourself."

"I'm thirteen," Al said. "But why not?"

"These are harsh times," the man continued, taking his pen back and tucking the clipboard away. "A war is about to break out."

"Are you going to fight in it?"

Julio shook his head. "No. It is not my fight or my place to say so. Let things have their own way. You'll see. Before we know it, it'll be over, and everyone else would have forgotten about us."

"I wish I could think things like that," the boy said wistfully.

"Why don't you?" Julio asked. "Everybody's lives would be a lot better that way."

"If we forget each other? If we mill about, doing absolutely nothing to help the war?" Al inquired. He shook his head. "No. You can think that, but you can't keep it up forever."

"By the time Karma comes back and bites me in the neck," Julio said, "I will already be old and dying. So it does not matter. By the way," he added, looking up at Alphonse, "a package came in the mail today. It's addressed for you."

"Really?" Al said, taking the package from Julio. He pinpointed the address, but he saw no sender ID. "Who's it from?"

"I don't know," the Spaniard man answered honestly. "He didn't come in and give it to me directly. It was left right on the desk when I was having my lunch break. If you ask me, it's from some kind of fund, judging from the address."

Alphonse turned the package over. "Huh. You're right."

It was a package of money from the university Ed was currently teaching at. Every month, the brothers received some funding from them, but this time it came a week early. Alphonse wondered why that was. The university wasn't particularly generous with their money; these days, there weren't enough to go around and people were forced onto the streets. The war was taking its toll on the population that had nothing to do with it.

Teaching a variety of physics, chemistry, mathematics and rocketry was the only thing keeping him and Ed off the streets. Sometimes he would follow his brother and help him teach a lesson at the university. Nothing too serious, of course. They wanted history to take its own course, and help other people with new discoveries, ones that already existed on their side of the Gate. Most of the time, though, Al stayed home and let his brother do the work. Edward would wake up early in the morning and head out, only leaving him breakfast that was quickly turning cold.

In every country they went to—and that was plenty, trust me—the brothers always tried to get a teaching job at some college or other. London and Munich were only a few of the places they taught at. The only reason for this was because then, they'd have access to unimaginable amounts of books and information that regular people couldn't get.

Edward was always prized as a prodigy. People, especially the staff, were amazed at his level of intellect, especially for someone so young. He always got them on their good side, and often used it to his advantage.

And every time, Alphonse would chide him for doing that, because it was wrong. But Ed never went too far with his schemes. He always returned anything he borrowed (stole) and he always apologized for losing his place (insulting someone higher than himself). After all, he was the Hero of the People. Sometimes he did good deeds without even knowing it. Alphonse often wondered how he hadn't gotten arrested yet.

He probably did, just not to his knowing.

"What's in it?" Julio asked politely.

"Letters from family," Al lied easily.

The man seemed to accept this response. "All right. Enjoy the rest of your day, good sir."

Alphonse smiled and nodded, heading out of the lobby. Once out in the setting sun, he read the message scrawled onto the box.

**Tell no one.**

It was in German, so no one from this country could have guessed. The first time he saw it, he knew this was one of the clues Ed was talking about. Or rather, a warning—a caution that led him to the clue. He was pretty sure the message intended for him to not tell _anyone_ the truth, whether it be about a missing person, or one's identity.

Even if it meant keeping a secret from an obviously trustworthy person such as Julio. But these days, you never knew for sure. Al hated lying to people—that was more of Ed's thing—but his brother's life was likely on the line and he wasn't going to take any chances.

Tearing his eyes away from the box, Al crossed the empty streets and down the sidewalks, hoping to reach the train station before the sun went down. He bought a ticket in advance, when he and Ed had planned to go back to America, but now he supposed that it was a time as good as any to use it. Edward wasn't here with him, sure, but he would have wanted him to do this.

It didn't matter if a 13-year-old kid was travelling all on his lonesome and hauling a giant suitcase behind him. Nope. Nothing weird about it AT ALL.

As he made his way down the street, the beach he had been at earlier came into view. He found himself stopping and staring out far into the waters, as if he would miraculously see Ed there, sitting in a boat, waving to him with a huge smile on his face.

He had to keep reminding himself that Ed wasn't coming back. Not on his own anyway. For now, Al had his own mission to accomplish, and it seemed a lot more promising.

A good fifteen minutes later, the town's train station came into sight, and he stood on the platform, awaiting his boarding. The train had already arrived and was blowing steam from its engine, telling its passengers that it was impatient and couldn't wait to get going.

A man in a tailored conductor's uniform stood behind a podium, stamping everyone's tickets and waving them aboard the train. When Al's was stamped, he went ahead into one of the private compartments and sat down, dragging his luggage in beside him.

The thing carried lots of books and it was heavy. Most of the time, Ed carried it because his auto-mail could handle the strain. It was now that Al realized that he truly missed his brother, more so than after Ed had transmuted himself to bring him back to life. But then he had half of his memories gone, so that didn't really count.

Alphonse sat back and let his mind wander. During that time, the train had begun to rumble down its track, towards the north.

A while later, Al got tired and decided to take a nap. After all, it was going to be a few hours until he reached Washington D.C. Once there, well, he didn't know for sure. But one thing was certain . . . he was going to search up Nicholas Flamel on the nation's largest library and data source.

* * *

><p>A good five hours later and about seven stops along the way, the train finally screeched to a halt outside Washington Station. Alphonse abruptly jerked awake and scrambled outside, his luggage flying behind him.<p>

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stared at the scene before him. To say the least, Washington was much busier than, let's say, down at the Gulf of Mexico. Cars bustled the streets, people pushed past the crowds, and there was general honking and yelling going around.

"Americans," Al sighed, shaking his head. "I'd prefer Berlin any day."

This city was the ninth one that he and Ed had visited in America so far. They had been literally all over the place. The choice was always random. They _started_ from the eastern seaboard, but they somehow ended up down south, and then to the center, all the way to the west, somehow ended up in British Columbia, Canada, and then back down to the south—_all the way_ down south, like in Texas—and then finally, in the east once again.

Maybe it was because they couldn't make up their minds. They didn't really have a home, so it never mattered. Ed always blamed it on the fact that the Uranium bomb kept on running away from them.

Alphonse just thought he liked moving around because he couldn't call anywhere home. Or perhaps he didn't want to call anywhere home and was simply running away.

All this city jumping caused some problems, and it forced Edward to get a teaching job in Washington D.C. He was definitely _not_ amused. To make it worse, the people here were way too generous, and they let him keep the job, even if he was away 95 percent of the time.

Their funders, the Lincoln University, always sent them monthly doses of cash to help better their lives. The two Elric brothers never cared for the sort of thing, but they had to admit it made things a lot easier. And even when they had that much money, they still decided to sleep at the school.

"It makes things less complicated," Ed had said. "And I like the place. Beats the other rented penthouses we always sleep in. I like how they gave me my own office." Then he would raise his hands up, getting a bigger picture of the office. "It's time for me to give it a make-over. Don't look at me like that, Al. I'm just trying to make it look more . . . badass. Hold on, I think it'll look good in red . . . "

Of course, Alphonse had smacked him upside the head, but he had to admit the shabby office did look a lot more presentable. His classroom, too, where he gave lectures to middle-aged men, looked a lot more appeasing to be in rather than downright depressing.

The 'friendly games' Edward sometimes played on the other professors also lightened the mood. He knew the kind of affect a war had on the youth. And even though Ed looked a lot older than he was supposed to be (as in his face, not his height; we all know he looks barely sixteen), that didn't stop him from protecting others' innocence. After all, he was once in the middle of a war himself, and he never wanted the same haunted look on others like it was on him.

Alphonse stepped off the station platform and signaled for a cab. One stopped beside him, and he climbed aboard.

The driver turned around and asked, "Where're you headed?"

"The Library of Congress, please," Al said politely.

The cab driver did a double-take. "Kid, you can't go in there without someone at least 18 and over. Do you have a guardian to take you there?"

"I'm thirteen," Alphonse corrected curtly. "And yes. He'll be waiting at the Library. Let's not keep him waiting, shall we?" Truth be told, he wasn't going to meet up with anyone anyway. At least, he didn't expect to.

The man eyed the boy suspiciously. "All right . . . If you say so." He started up the engine, and the cab jerked forward into motion. He left the curb and into the traffic. "So what are ya gonna do at the library once you get there?"

"Some research," Al said absentmindedly. It wasn't a total lie. Just . . . not the whole truth.

"'Bout what?" Were all Americans this nosy?

Alphonse shifted in his seat. "It's for a history project." Half truth. "I can't find information about this man from anywhere else, and I thought, 'Hey! Why don't I go to the largest library in this country to research about him?'" Half truth. "I live in this area, so it's kind of a daily basis thing." Half truth. He lived in the building _beside _the Library of Congress.

"Hm." The driver nodded appreciatively. "Well, kid, I hope you find whatever you're lookin' for."

"I hope so," Al agreed. He wasn't as cheery as he was pretending to be.

The cab took a left turn and headed that way for a while. Then there was a right turn, followed by a left, and then another left. Alphonse then about lost his place when they passed by the White House. About fifteen minutes later, they arrived at their destination. Alphonse opened the door and stepped out, lifting his suitcase after him.

He paid the driver. "Thanks for the ride. Keep the change."

"You sure?"

Alphonse turned back. "Of course. I have plenty of that, no worries."

He didn't get to hear the driver's answer as he begun making his way down the street. Not really to the Library exactly, but more like . . . going around it. Alphonse wanted to head back to the university first to check on something.

The Library of Congress was huge in comparison to the university he stayed at. The schools weren't that impressive, but it was still as magnificent as any national monument. They were clean and well-kept, and they certainly weren't poor. It was as if the war simply couldn't penetrate their foundations, like a barrier was protecting it.

But Al knew that soon enough, that wasn't going to be the case. Life went by slowly and steadily, but change can happen in a blink of an eye, and then _BAM!—_you're stuck in the middle of a war.

Alphonse crossed the campus grounds and headed not into the school itself, but to a quaint little cottage at the back where he lived. Of course, it was also Ed's home, but the guy always seemed to end up sleeping in his office or the school's library due to over-researching. And every single time, Al would find him the next day, sitting hunched over in his chair, drooling all over and face planting a book.

All Edward did when he eventually woke up was smile stupidly and greet his little brother.

That memory made him smile, too, as Al unlocked the cottage door and stepped through. The house hadn't been maintained for two weeks, and it showed. Dust could be seen floating around the room as the sun cast light upon them through the open-curtained windows. A lot of it accumulated on the furniture, and Alphonse resisted the urge to take a deep breath and blow on top of everything.

But there was something he needed, and there wasn't any time to waste.

He went to Ed's room—the one he barely ever used—and started to tap his fist all over the place: the walls, the floorboards, the bed, his dresser, and even the ceiling. He knew Ed had kept a secret compartment somewhere; he just needed to know _where_. And why he felt such a need to build a secret compartment in his room? You'll find out soon enough.

After realizing that tapping everything on the surface wasn't working, Alphonse began to push everything aside and check the area underneath them. He moved the bed, and found nothing under there. He went into the closet and moved aside the old boxes of newspaper clippings and books, but found nothing there either. He pushed a wardrobe out of the way and studied the ground under it and the wall behind it.

He wracked his knuckles against the wall, but there was nothing unusual. No hollow sound. Then he scrutinized the floorboards and realized that something looked a little bit _off_. A section of the wood wasn't symmetrical to everything else, as if someone had cut it out and removed it, and then put it back without bothering to put it back right.

Al tapped a finger against the floorboard. There was a hollow _dunk, dunk_ sound. Grinning, the boy stuck his fingers between the floor gaps and tugged at the wood. It wasn't budging particularly how he wanted it.

He found a screwdriver nearby and set to work again. He jammed it under the wood and pushed the screwdriver's handle downwards, lifting the floorboard upwards. A second later, the wood flew off its spot with a loud _CRACK!_ It hit the ceiling, bounced off the bed and onto the floor again, and Alphonse wondered how it could have possibly stayed intact. He went over and examined it, finding out that the wood was actually lined with metal plating.

"Brother, you glued it to the floor," Al said with astonishment, gaping at the glued edges of the wood.

He threw the piece of wood/metal away and returned to the secret compartment. He bent down and gazed into the black hole. It was hollowed out, and only held one thing inside. A safe.

Alphonse drew it out and held it gingerly, as if a bomb was contained inside.

"I know it's important, but really, did you have to put it in a _safe_?" Al demanded to an absent Ed. He sighed, shaking his head like, _What am I going to do with you?_and set to work cracking the safe open. It also helped that Edward told him the combination beforehand.

But the next thing he did not see coming.

Alphonse groaned exasperatedly. "Brother, I swear, you are the most paranoid person I've ever met! Did you have to stuff a safe within a safe?"

True to his word, Edward did place a safe within a safe. You could never be too safe with a safe, so you had to put another safe within that same safe . . . just to be safe. No one else did it better than the Fullmetal Alchemist.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Alphonse demanded, dialing in the second combination.

Thankfully, this time, there was not another safe in a safe within a safe. But there was one other thing, plus a note and no money at all. Most would stash possessions far more important than a note, but Edward didn't worry about such things. Money was scarce as it was.

Alphonse took the note first, blinking a couple of times as he read it.

"'Entrance to stronghold'," he read, "'Get to Congress. Yellow book, third shelf, thirteenth from the right, cooking section.'"

At first, he was dumbstruck. But then he realized it was actually pretty obvious. Ed was being _literal_ with this, the opposite of what Al was generally expecting. _Is this some kind of reverse psychology?_ he thought. _Or is there a riddle in there somewhere?_

Al only knew half of what he was doing at the moment. He knew about the secret compartment. He knew what was inside it. He knew that he had to find it and open it when he was stuck with a problem he couldn't solve on his own. This—with Ed gone missing and all—did count as a problem he couldn't solve on his own.

But . . . he didn't know where to go from there. Ed's note clearly stated that there was a stronghold in the Library of Congress, and that it was really important for Al to find it and enter it. But he didn't state what for or why. He never knew there was a stronghold in the greatest library of all time, and he didn't know what to expect. Was it someplace for him to find all the answers to his unanswered questions?

"Who . . . built it?" he asked himself shakily.

He sort of imagined a very old story about a bunker being built underground to hold off doomsday. But this couldn't possibly be that kind of thing could it? No, this _stronghold_ held a much higher purpose. But what?

Alphonse reluctantly looked away from the note and his eyes travelled to the second object in the safe. It was a coin. Not just any old coin, though. It was an Amestrian coin—the only one that Ed was able to salvage before coming through the Gate. It had the Fuhrer's face on the back (damn homunculus) and the front had the lion emblem that every State Alchemist watch had.

_What…?_ Al reached out and grabbed the coin and held it up, eyeing it carefully. Yep. It was a normal, Amestrian coin. It was about the size of a modern day toonie. Small, but not too small. There wasn't anything built into it to trigger another secret compartment.

Al flipped the coin and caught it in midair. He held it there for a couple of seconds before returning the safes to their original positions, and capping the fake floorboard over the hollowed out compartment again. He pushed everything back to where they were to make it seem like nothing was out of the ordinary.

He dusted himself off and exited the cottage. There wasn't anything he could come back for anyway. He had his handy-dandy suitcase, the funds, the note . . . and the coin.

And now, for the hard part.

The Library of Congress was HUGE. He couldn't possibly find the cooking section _that_ easily. If they had a cooking section. And how could Ed be so sure that a 'yellow book, on the third shelf and thirteen spaces to the right' was going to be there? Someone could have taken it out and there'd be an empty space. What then?

_I could check for it when I do my round of researching on Nicholas Flamel._

Deciding that that was the best course of action, Alphonse left his luggage at the cottage and locked the door behind him. The Library was only a short walk away—literally next door—so he could make it back in time for dinner. Hopefully this 'stronghold' was just a room filled with provisions and nothing interesting.

But Ed wouldn't just guide him to a stronghold if it _was_ filled with them.

As Al glided past the university, somebody called to him.

"Mr. Elric! Uh, Alphonse, was it? Could you hold a minute?"

Alphonse turned around and found one of Lincoln's professors running towards him. The man was polite and kind, but they were simply acquaintances. He was more of Ed's friend anyway; Alphonse didn't know him all that well. Still, he put on a warming smile. "Hello, Johann. How can I help you?"

Johann stopped and stood before the young boy, panting slightly. "Alphonse, I'm glad I caught you. I was just wondering—have you seen Edward? He's due for another lecture tomorrow." He beamed excitedly. "I heard we're getting three times the amount than last time. I'd never thought he'd turn out to be quite that popular."

"I'm afraid he's not with me at the moment," Al replied, his tone stating finality. Johann's face fell.

"Where is he?" Johann continued, stopping him. "He's usually with you, isn't he? Where'd he go off to?"

"I don't know," Alphonse said truthfully. "Probably more researching without me. I'm sure he'll show up eventually. Going missing is a common occurrence for him."

Johann nodded. He was obviously unhappy with this turnout of events. "All right. Sorry to bother you. I guess I'll have to forward this to the Board and postpone another lecture."

"Yes, sorry about that."

"You wouldn't mind taking his place, would you?"

"Ah, about that. I'm actually very busy right now. It looks like you either have to cancel or find another replacement. Apologies, Johann."

"It's no bother. Have a good day, then, Alphonse."

The boy inclined his head and waited for Johann to disappear into the university before heading towards the Library of Congress.

By the time he got there, the sun was beginning to set and he knew he only had two hours worth of research before the Library closed for the night. He climbed the marble steps and entered the giant building. Inside, and although he'd been there already, he couldn't help but stop and stare and be surprised at how grand and majestic the structure really was.

The floor was covered in red velvet carpet. A huge front desk was to the left, a secretary typing away at her computer. There was an area filled with dozens of rectangular tables. People sat in chairs, reading books, with more piled around them. The bookshelves were made out of dark, lush mahogany, and they were stocked full of books. Row on row they stood, inviting Al in to uncover its secrets.

The young boy smiled and resisted to run as he searched for the history section of the library. He looked for the cooking section, too, but if it was really that important, he'd save it for later. After all, he wasn't really planning on getting out _exactly_ at 8 o'clock. Maybe stay a little later? Do some sneaking around? The good stuff.

Alphonse went deeper into the library, and the deeper he went, the more lost he got. Soon, he was found by a librarian, an old woman wearing a grey skirt, yellow shirt, and a pink shawl. She had reading glasses sitting on the bridge of her hawk-like nose.

"May I help you, young man?" asked the elderly woman.

"Uh." Al scratched his head sheepishly. "I kind of got lost in here. Could you point the way to the history section?"

"Of course." The woman pointed down the aisle. "Count six bookshelves and turn left. History is very vast, so we've got four bookshelves of them, front and back. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Alphonse bowed to the old woman, which startled her. "Thank you for your help!" He ran off, but she was too stunned to tell him to stop. The youngsters these days didn't bother to show much respect to their elders, so this was first of the few she got.

He counted the bookshelves, and when he hit six, he turned left and found a whole _wall_ of books on history. He turned this way and that, trying to find the _Historical Biographies_ section. He went to the other side of the bookshelf and found it there. It looked like it was going to take ages before he found the right book.

Alphonse eyed a certain group of books and climbed aboard a ladder. He could just about reach them if he reeeaaaalllllyyyy stretched. Ah, there we go. He climbed back down and sat right down on the floor, cross-legged, and began to read his first book.

It was about famous scientists of history from the 13th century to the current date. Alphonse started at the earliest dates, hoping to find a man named Flamel. He could have had a kid, who had another kid, who had another and another and another that decided to name their child after his great-great-great-great . . . great grandfather. Alright, A LOT of greats, but you know what I mean.

He found nothing.

Nicholas Flamel didn't exist. At all.

Frustrated, Al put down the book and took up another one. This one was about ancient alchemy, instead of science. Al guessed that Flamel better fit alchemy than science, and that his profession was more fairy tale than reality.

Like the previous book, it told nothing much about this man's whereabouts. He had died in 1418. That was it. End of the line. Nicholas Flamel was a doctor, an early alchemist, a miracle worker, and came from French descent. He never had any children.

"Flamel couldn't have been the original's grandson. But it couldn't have been _this_ Flamel . . . Maybe Ed was talking about a different Flamel?" Alphonse shook his head, thoroughly confused. "No . . . Couldn't have. He wrote Fleming down first. But that isn't like him! He would give me a clue on where to start. I can't find a Fleming without a clue first!"

And then a voice spoke at the back of his mind: Cold, quiet, just merely a whisper, but what it said sent chills down Al's spine. He had been given a clue.

_Maybe Nicholas Flamel isn't really dead._

"How could I think that?" Al chided himself. _If Flamel wasn't dead—the original Flamel—then that would make him immortal! And immortality is simply impossible! How in the world would Ed know about this and not tell me? Why DIDN'T he tell me?_

Alphonse set down his book, deciding not to take another one. Maybe this is the wrong place to look, he thought. Maybe his answers were in the stronghold, like the clue had said. He should've followed Ed's orders, instead of taking his own path. But researching about Flamel—a supposedly dead man—didn't seem wrong either. It was just . . . on the verge of impossible.

"I'm probably looking in the wrong place," Al said to himself.

"I should think so," a voice he didn't recognize chimed.

Alphonse jumped to his feet, his instincts on haywire. His eyes travelled and locked onto a man with a short stature, slicked hair, and an expensive, well-tailored suit. Al immediately knew he didn't like the man.

"Why would you say that?" he said, voice nonchalant, attempting to be casual.

The man smiled. "You looked to be in a predicament. History is a hard thing to grasp the concept of. Tell me, young man, why are you here? Perhaps another library is better suited for the job."

"I'm researching for a history paper, and I've searched through the other libraries. This one has the most accurate data," Alphonse replied. "It's due soon," he added.

The man, as tall as Alphonse, nodded. "I see. Well, I may be able to help you there. I'm quite proficient at history. Just ask me a question, and I'll answer to the best I can."

Al shook his head. "That's awfully kind of you, but I've got this handled. Besides, that will be cheating. Researching on my own is part of the mark. So perhaps I'll look somewhere else."

The short man inclined his head politely. "Of course. It isn't my place to force you otherwise. But tell me, what are you researching about?" The man made the move to approach Alphonse, but the boy stopped him.

"The origins of Science," he said, absentmindedly kicking his book closed by disguising it as scratching his leg. "You know, the boring stuff."

"Ah, but Science is not boring," the man said sagely. "It is anything but. I assume being a student of history, you know this."

Al shrugged noncommittally. This conversation was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. This man just kept going and prodding him for answers.

"I'll admit it comes in handy sometimes," he said, "but at this stage, you can't really say for sure. I've heard we're on a scientific breakthrough. Did you hear about the rockets in Germany? Fantastic things, aren't they?"

"Indeed," the rich man said slowly.

"If I'll need help, I'll call for you," Al said, trying to sound upbeat. He grabbed his books off the ground and started to replace them on the shelves. He turned around, looking down at the man from his place all the way up the ladder. "Oh, excuse my rudeness. What was your name again?"

"You may call me John Dee," the man said. "Dr. John Dee."

* * *

><p><strong>Another chapter done! There are a few mistakes in there, but I'll sort them out soon enough. If you go back to the previous chapters, I changed some minor things. Just minor tweets, so it doesn't even matter. Miss Ed? Don't worry, he'll be reappearing soon enough. ;)<strong>

**P.S. I really like to thank all those who added my story to their Story Alerts and/or reviewed it. I appreciate it SO much. You make a beginner author very happy.**

**Edit: Still running the rewrite . . . **


	4. IV: Moving On

**Hello once again, people! Sorry this is taking so long. I've still got school, you know. It takes me about a week to finish one chapter, so please be patient. I'll try to update every weekend. Thanks so much for understanding.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA, SINF, or anything you recognize here from the real world.**

**Some facts I might get wrong from the SINF's side, but that's because I don't have the book. I had to return it to the library. Just... just bear with me, alright? -_-**

**Other than that, please enjoy!**

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><p>Time travel.<p>

Humans have dreamed of it for years, and when one got close enough, the Universe would shove them right back in the face with new equations and a whole other paradox to consider.

Time travel had been deemed in our time to be impossible. The only way we could reach reality with the idea was to imagine. It was only ever going to be possible in our minds. But if it was real, time and space would be literally torn apart. Reality would shatter. All matter and energy would cease to exist—simply because we couldn't comprehend how it worked.

But even if this was the case, then how had one seemingly normal human being done it?

Edward Elric wasn't proud of his accomplishment. To the normal person, it was a huge discovery. But to him, it went against all he believed in. It wasn't the horror of not seeing Al again, returning to his time, or even adapting to his new environment . . . It was the truth that frightened him.

How had he gone forward in time without Equivalency? To do something this massive required enormous sacrifice. And yet . . . he had done nothing. He _gave_ nothing. He gained something instead—alchemy. Now he was tempted to give it back, just so he could return back to his time.

What was the point of sticking him in this time period? What would Truth get out of this imbalanced exchange? He couldn't even remember the White Being's words back at the Gate. His memories have begun to resurface again, and the Gate was the first thing he saw. The effort nearly broke his mind, but he at least knew His attentions now.

This was all Truth's plan.

God, Universe, Everything, All, One, Truth… You. The One Being that drove Edward mad to his core. He wanted so much to punch It right in the nonexistent face, to pay Him back for everything he suffered through. But he needed answers, and this wasn't the right way to do it.

He should have been glad Truth didn't take anything from him! He should have been glad he got Alchemy back after so long. But he wasn't. He wasn't because something seemed really wrong about this, as if untold horrors were going to happen in the near future, and he was only here because he was to be the one to stop it.

He saved a whole country, he saved an entire _planet_. He saved two different universes from utterly destroying one another. And this is what he got in the end.

He didn't ask for more. He didn't do these days for his own enjoyment. He already took up the mission of destroying the Uranium bomb, and suddenly he was thrust forward in time to save people once again. From what he didn't know, but he didn't think that mattered.

There was no going back anymore. He was stuck here, and unless he completed his mission—whatever it was—he was never going to Alphonse again. After so long the brothers were reunited, and now they were torn apart.

_I should have told him to come with me,_ Ed thought. _Then we'd still be together, no matter where we are, when we are._

How had he been so stupid? Was this really protecting Al?

_I didn't know what the circle would do. I didn't think it would work. I didn't think . . . think that it would bring me forward in time, and leave Al to die alone. Dying . . . _

No. He couldn't think that. If he found out what Truth wanted, what his purpose in the 21st Century was, then he could go back to when he came from.

Right?

But Truth couldn't be reachable. The only way Ed was going to seek an audience with the Being was to transmute himself, and this time, He might take Exchange after all. No, he couldn't risk it. If he went back to the transmutation circle in the ocean, there was a slight chance of something going wrong. He could disappear for real this time.

Sure, it worked out the first time he activated it again, but that's because Truth wanted him to. If he were to activate the circle again to go back, he was likely to lose the last of his limbs. And auto-mail didn't exist on this side. Human engineering didn't understand their concepts yet. His father had made prototypes from what technology they could gather, but he had to admit they were shit.

For now, he had to blend into the background until he got a sign.

"Easier said than done," he grumbled, walking down the street with his hands in his coat pockets.

He had no idea when this 'sign' was going to pop up. Blending in was nearly impossible. How many people had gold for an eye color? Not many; except those with contacts. Who wore a heavy overcoat in the middle of summer? No one; unless you had something to hide. Who still dressed like they came from War World II? Nobody; unless they're reenacting the war or cos-playing.

Actually, everyone here were the ones who dressed strangely, in Ed's opinion. He wanted to take it off, but he couldn't because his auto-mail would be exposed. He was sweating in this thing.

Besides, his artificial limbs weren't working right. No matter how ingenious Winry was, Ed didn't think she could make it entirely waterproof. No kind of metal could survive underwater that long for that deep. The limbs didn't rust, but they were creaking and groaning like they'd spent eternity in a heavy rainstorm.

And after spending most of his day underwater, the moisture was starting to affect his auto-mail ports. They were aching badly. He kept rubbing at them, but the pain didn't go away. Plus, it was sunny. Overall, everything summed up to be complete torture.

He had virtually nothing, had nowhere to go. Where _could_ he go? Everybody he ever knew were likely dead.

"Al," he said, as if calling out the name would bring his little brother to him.

The only possessions he had were the stuff in his backpack—the one he found on that empty motorboat. He still didn't know what happened to the owner. He had likely drowned or . . .

"_No_," he muttered, horror seeping into him.

Maybe Truth took that man's life to get Edward to the other side?

He shook his head vigorously. "No, no," he mumbled. "That can't be right."

He refused to believe it. A brief memory flashed through his mind and nearly made him double over in pain. He remembered the man that took him to the circle. Of course, at that time, he didn't know it was a transmutation circle. But Edward knew the man had stayed _in_ the boat. There was no way Truth could have gotten him.

Edward let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. The boat must have gone through instead, and the man was left behind. But even then! The guy had no way to go back to land. Maybe he swam? It could have been as likely he drowned.

"Let's hope not," he said, crossing the street.

He found out a while ago (by simple trial and error) that those signs with the flashy lights were called 'traffic lights'. Near those were more lights—one with a walking man, and another with a red hand. The walking man obviously meant you could walk across the street, and the red hand meant the opposite. He nearly died a couple of times to find this out, but humankind had never gone far without risking life and limb.

Other times, he had jaywalked right through the middle of the freeway, and lots of cars honked their horns at him. He knew it was illegal, but he couldn't care less. Hey, if he was stuck in this time, might as well cause havoc while at it, right? Besides, there was no way he'd let himself be arrested. He wasn't going to stick around long enough to find out.

Well, it all depended on what he was supposed to accomplish and when Truth was satisfied with the outcome.

After reality had sunk in, Edward knew he had to head back up north to the states. He had begun walking a few hours ago, and was still going. He took rests by hitching rides on freight trains and cargo trucks delivering chickens to the southerly farms. He guessed he was somewhere in Texas by now, closing on Louisiana.

He heard Louisiana's population spoke French. Hmm . . . perhaps he could communicate with them. He knew a little bit of French. Wait, Latin too. And . . . some Greek? Was that Italian—?

Another memory flashed through his mind, and he sank to his knees, grasping the sides of his head.

"Why . . . now . . . of all . . . times . . . ?" he grounded out through clenched teeth, his chest tight.

What did Truth to him at the Gate? Why was his head hurting? Why did he suddenly know so many things he'd never learnt before?

All this knowledge . . . It was suddenly coming back to him, ramming his skull like a careening hammer. Bits and pieces of information flashed through his mind, making him feel like he was going another round with the Gate. Everything he ever wanted to know, everything he _planned_ to learn, was suddenly imprinted in his mind, becoming as clear as day.

It made his head hurt. Oh, it hurt like living hell.

The good news? They were only languages of this Earth, from past to present. The bad news? Memories of his first encounter with the Gate—the night he had tried to bring his dead mother back to life, and losing Al's body in the process—suddenly came rushing back to him. It made his teeth ache, and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

Edward shut his eyes. _Make it stop . . ._

French, Greek, Latin, Celtic, Welsh, Arabic, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Hindu, Urdu, Irish, Hebrew, Hindi, Hungarian, Italian, Korean, Portuguese, Spanish, Polish, Persian, Russian, Serbian, Swedish, Romanian, Yiddish, Ukrainian…

Un est tout, tout est un.

一种是全部，全部是其中之一.

Az egyik a minden, minden egy.

Един от тях е всички, всичко е едно.

Hitotsu wa subete no baai, subete wa 1tsudesu.

Eines ist Alles, ist alles eins.

Viens ir viss, viss ir viens.

Το ένα είναι Όλα, όλα είναι ένα.

Uno es Todo, todo es uno.

Omnia est unum Omnia est unum.

Um é Tudo, tudo é um.

Mae un yn Bawb, Mae pob A yw Un.

Jeden je vše, vše je jedno.

Один из них все, все едино.

Una dintre ele este Toate, Totul este Unul.

**One is all, all is one.**

The knowledge abruptly stopped flowing into him. Edward punched the ground with his auto-mail arm, pushed himself up, and stumbled around before he got his bearings. His head was pounding, as if a galactic warzone rampaged inside it. He was not happy. He was going to murder Truth.

Edward didn't really know if this was a side affect from travelling through that time portal circle. All he knew was Truth could've implanted the knowledge into his head when he was _unconscious_, so he'd wake up knowing every single language known to man—sorry, in _existence_—and not when, let's say, he was fighting an enemy. Because, right now, he was more than pissed.

He was downright raging, and if he didn't get a _good reason_ for cramming decades of learning into his head, he'd transmute the entire continent and see what Truth would do about it. That's what He wanted, wasn't it?

He wanted Edward to fight for him, create balance for His fucked up problems because he was too damn lazy to do something about himself, so then he decided to bring a measly human into this to do _His_ dirty work. Fucking bastard.

And if it turned out that the 21st Century was okay all along and no one needed some major ass-kicking, he'd get to go back to 1923, right?

Wrong.

This wasn't all what he was here for. There was more to it. This time period was screwed up for a reason, and he had to correct it. And if that meant never going back to his own time, then so be it.

Going back meant that some time in the future, his past self would go to the future and fix time again, because he wasn't there to exist—and _be_ the evidence of the world being saved—so he'd be trapped in an endless loop of paradox after paradox. And afterwards when his real self would catch up to real time, he'd actually have to live through his old self saving the world. No thanks. Too freaking complicated.

"Besides," he admitted to himself, glad no one was around to hear him, "I can't even transmute the damned continent. It's too big."

Edward forced himself to walk.

Because, if he couldn't move on, at least he had the legs to get up and walk.

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><p>The train rumbled on the tracks, cutting the horizon like a huffing-puffing, whistling comet. It was a supply train, carrying goods across the country. Right now, it was heading up north to get new imports. Most of its compartments were empty due to this, and it offered a nice place to stop and rest.<p>

It didn't slow down for anybody—not until it reached its destination. Its gears chugged and grinded, heaving the huge load onwards.

Beside the train, Edward Elric was running like hell, trying to catch up to it. He was tired from walking. He could barely even _run_. But if it got him someplace with peace and quiet, it was worth it. He was now wondering if he should've just stopped under a tree and rested there. But that wasn't multitasking! It couldn't get him anywhere.

He settled for running after a train. He realized now that it was nearly impossible. The trains in this time period ran much faster, more efficient. Sure they didn't look that much different, but the one rule that all must follow . . . _Never judge a book by its cover_.

And now Edward was paying for it.

He could've latched on to any part of the train, but he needed an empty compartment. And finding one was hard. Most of them were closed. Another way to get on was just jump on the side of the train and hang on for dear life, then get on top of it and try to jump from compartment to compartment until an empty one was found.

Of course, this was also suicide.

"I haven't done train walking in a _long_ time," he grunted, launching himself towards the moving train. He grabbed onto the side ladder, and he felt a humungous lurch as the train forced him to follow its momentum. Edward grabbed the bars with both hands, hanging on tight.

Even with his entire body pressed flat against the train, he still felt like his face was peeling off. But it wasn't over yet. Edward climbed up the ladder and onto the top of the compartment he was on. Immediately the wind slammed into him full force.

He hated to admit it . . . but it was a lot easier to walk on the train when he was smaller. Because then there was less resistance against the wind, and it passed more smoothly through him.

But he wasn't short. He just wasn't.

Mustering all his strength, he put one leg forward. Then another. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right, left, right, left. He kept going until he was near the end of the compartment. Then he swung over the edge and lowered himself down. All that wind pushing against him chest made it hard to breathe. He used this time to get his breath back.

And then he resumed the sequence. He jumped from one section to another, and walked from compartment to compartment to find an open one. It was true he could have used alchemy, but transmuting the hood off a roof took a lot of energy. He was using his last storage to do this, and he didn't have any more to spare. He had to either accomplish his mission, or pass out altogether.

There was also the thought of phasing through matter entirely, like Wrath had done using his limbs, but he was out of practice. No point in risking his life just to see if he could pull some stunt.

"The crap I put up with," he sighed, peering over the edge of the compartment he was standing on. This one had an open door. He smirked and swung himself into the room. He rolled on the floor a couple of times before crashing headfirst into the other side of the compartment.

Edward rubbed his smarting scalp and glanced around himself.

The compartment seemed spacious enough. It was a good place to stop and take a nap. And he needed it. After miles of non-stop walking, all his energy reserves had been spent. He feared that if he had transmuted something then—especially when he was so out of practice—he would have likely died.

"I'm hungry," he announced to nobody. His stomach grumbled in agreement.

Ed lay down on the hard, cold floor and placed his arm over his eyes, blocking out the sunlight streaking through the open door. He inhaled sharply, and blew it out of his nose.

It was then he decided that he was in some major, deep shit. He knew it was bad before, but he didn't know _how_ badly. Take the previous mind rape from before, for instance. Truth had given him the knowledge out of the blue, and didn't even give him a warning first. His head still hurt from all the information.

"Great," he muttered grumpily. "I have fifty something languages in my head, and I don't even know how to use it. It's not like I'm gonna need it!" He rolled over. "I hope you're doing better than me, Al. I hope you've found what you're looking for."

Random languages running through his exhausted mind, Edward fell promptly asleep.

He dreamed of grassy hills, and a big farm house with a tire swing and a laundry line. A woman with chocolate brown hair and forest green eyes smiled at him. He felt himself running towards her.

So familiar.

He knew her. Yes . . . She was—

**XXX**

"Mom and Dad would be so worried," Sophie Newman muttered, rubbing her hands worriedly.

"Tell them you're at your aunt's home," Nick Fleming—sorry, Nicholas Flamel—said.

"I don't want to lie to them!" Sophie exclaimed angrily.

"It's not technically a lie," Nicholas said gently. "You're simply bending the truth."

"Nice way of looking at it," Josh said from his place at the helm of the car. He was fifteen, so he was technically driving illegally. But there were more important things than the law at the moment. Yes, his crappy driving skills are insignificant. They don't count.

"Just keep driving!" Scathach snapped. "We haven't got the time. If you haven't noticed, we've got hundreds of inhuman clay men after us! Not too mention an evil immortal bent on destroying humanity. Telling the truth is the least of your problems right now!"

They didn't know just how ironic that was.

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><p><strong>Do I really need to mention this? Please, review. It would make me so happy!<strong>

**BTW, if you saw a bunch of boxes in the text, then that means you don't support the language or something. I don't... really know. It's supposed to be Mandarin. Don't ask me what those languages are saying.**

**They all say the same thing, really. "One is all, all is one." If you haven't guessed already, anyway. I used Google Translate for that, so please excuse my butchering of the languages. All I know is... the English and French are right. DON'T JUDGE ME.**

**Edit: Rewriting, rewriting, rewriting . . .**


	5. V: Mission Impossible PT 2

**Hello everyone! Here is the next chapter. Thanks for waiting patiently. This week has been hectic, school's been getting in the way of my writing, blah blah blah... But I don't have any homework this weekend, which made it possible for me to complete this chapter. Thanks for sticking with me this long everyone.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF.**

**Aaaaannnnnnddddddd ON TO THE STORY!**

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><p><strong>Previously, on The Secrets of Danu Talis...<strong>

_He turned around, looking down at the man from his place all the way up the ladder. "Oh, what was your name again?"_

_"You may call me John Dee," the man said. "Dr. John Dee."_

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><p>On the outside, Alphonse was smiling.<p>

On the inside, however, his heart was beating rapidly.

He knew the name from somewhere. He saw it in the same place he saw Nicholas Flamel's. There was a slight chance Dee was a namesake of _the_ John Dee, but there was also the chance that he _was_ him, and that the possibility of Flamel being immortal could really be relevant. If that was the case, then the person he was talking to now was also immortal.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Dee—or Dr. Dee, I should say," Alphonse said, trying to pretend he didn't recognize the name. "It was nice chatting with you, but now"—he climbed back down from the ladder—"I really have to be finishing that paper, or my teacher will throw daggers at me."

Which wasn't really off one bit. Izumi Curtis liked to throw butcher knives at her students if they were one step out of line. Unfortunately, both Elric brothers had the scars to prove it.

John smiled, but this time, Al saw something wicked behind that pale mask. "It was nice meeting you too, but you haven't told me your name."

Alphonse hesitated.

"Come on now," John goaded. "It can't hurt. It's customary to tell your name to others when they've learned yours, isn't it? Aren't things done that way in Germany?"

"How do you know I come from Germany?" Al asked.

Dee smiled that infuriating smile again. "You must be joking. I know you're that rocketeer who invented the first rockets. He hails from Germany, isn't that right?"

Alphonse sighed, watching John Dee turn smug. "I guess I can't it from you, O' Great Doctor. I'm Alphons Heidrich. Nice to meet you . . . again."

"Ah!" John Dee spread his arms. "It's the famous Alphons Heidrich himself. I have to ask you, why have to decided to migrate all the way to America?"

"I have to finish school," Alphonse now Alphons said, shrugging. "I thought coming here would prove good for me. New country, new experiences. It's also a place where I can put my skills to good use. Everybody back at home already knows how to build rockets. It's a new world, Mr. Dee. New world equals new opportunities."

Doctor John Dee, Alphonse decided, was obnoxious. And that was a understatement.

He didn't like lying to anyone, especially when it came to lying to himself. He mentally hoped that Dee would accept his words and not question it.

Fortunately for Al, Dee accepted the crap easily, as if the man gave them out himself on a daily basis.

"You have the right mind," Dee complimented. "When you grow up, Alphons, perhaps you could work under me."

Note the _under me_, not _for me_.

"You'd be dead," Alphonse replied, trying to sound incompetent.

John Dee caught himself, and Al envisioned him punching himself for letting that slip up. "Ah, of course. But what I mean is when you finish school. I'd like to take you in immediately. Show you the ropes."

"What exactly do you do?" Al asked, hoping the man will take the bait.

It turned out that luck was on his side. John Dee just _loved_ boasting about himself. "Well, I am a scientist, like you. But the knowledge that I hold far exceed modern times. What I know is more advanced than what we have here, today. Even automobiles don't stand a chance."

"So something that shouldn't exist," Alphonse said tentatively.

"Exactly."

Alphonse smiled, but only a bit. Dee was playing right into his hand. He wasn't one for manipulating others, but when he did, he was very good. If Ed were here, he'd be proud of his little brother, even though the idea of it was a little bit disturbing.

"I'll think about it," he replied. "Now if you don't mind, I got to get going with my history paper."

Dee inclined his head and made no move to stop him. Alphonse dashed off to the opposite side of the shelf, stood there for half a second to see if Dee was still watching him, and then promptly left for the fiction section. He guessed that if he was going to find more things about alchemy, it was going to be there. If something that should exist and doesn't, then somebody would like for it to exist—in a story.

He got lost a few times, but the fiction section was rather easy to find. It stood at the very back of the library, covering the whole wall and beyond. He traced the bookshelves from one end to another until he stopped by the Science Fiction area.

There were books on spaceships, aliens, conspiracies, unidentified events, theories about creations and evolution, and of course . . .

"Alchemy!" Al said, drawing a couple of books out.

He read a couple of them over and decided that fiction had more things in common with alchemy than science. It was a bit disheartening to say the least. He knew alchemy never existed on this side of the Gate, but it was a little bit sad to think humanity considered it to be merely _fiction_.

Most of the knowledge was made up, but the books all had one thing in common . . . Equivalent Exchange. Or, along that sense somewhat. All the books stated that alchemy followed the Law of Conservation and Energy. Nothing could be created without giving something return. If creating matter was possible due to—let's just say—magic, then the balance would be broken.

Randomly conjuring objects out of thin air meant they took the material from _elsewhere_. It had to be.

"Magic doesn't exist," Al told himself. He shook his head. "That's just nonsense little children make up."

He thought back to Dee. He was pretty sure he was immortal, like Flamel. But what had he given in return for such a great ability? It must have been some enormous sacrifice.

"You can't pay anything more than your life itself."

Maybe that was how it was. Dee probably pledged himself to a higher power, and would end up dying if he had failed. But failed what? Who had this kind of power—to grant immortality to others? Alphonse could only think of one person, one being.

_Truth._

Could a human even work for Truth? Al supposed the Truth of this side must've been really twisted for that to happen. Truth never needed someone to work for Him. For that reason, being a god was lonely.

Someone else—No. _Something_ else was at work here.

Alphonse put all the books on alchemy away and decided that it was time for him to find the 'Stronghold'. Even with the biggest library in America at his disposal, there was only so much he could learn about a supposedly dead alchemist. He could only go so far until facts turned into fiction.

Now, where to start? He knew the stronghold was in this library. But he didn't know where to start. The place was freaking massive.

He turned his head to the right, and saw the old lady from earlier that helped him find the History section. He ran over to her and called for her attention.

She turned around. "Oh, it's you again. How may I help you, young man?"

"I need to find the section on cooking," he said.

"Cooking?" The woman smiled with amusement. "How would a young man such as yourself have an interest in cooking? These days, that's the women's job, you know. The men have to go out and fight in the war."

"It's for my mother," Al lied. "She's looking for a really good recipe."

"Oh, is that so? Well, I guess I can help you." She pointed down the way Alphonse had come from. "Just turn left and across the reading hall. It should be around there. No one really touches that place. It should be as good as new."

_That's probably why Ed chose that place to hide the Stronghold,_ Al concluded. He thanked the woman. "But, uh . . . I'm a little bit young to enroll in the war, so why do you say—"

The old lady laughed. "On the contrary. Every man believes that the war is some joke, and they'd be home in time for Christmas. But how much do they really know? They're all fools. They don't know the casualties, the deaths that a war brings. So they enlist, thinking it's some politician's game. But it's not. You probably wouldn't believe me, but the youngest to have been reported to join he army is only 15. I'm certain _you _are not far off."

Alphonse donned a serious expression. "I'm not that foolish, Ma'am. I believe the battle can only be won through those who work in silence."

The woman gave him a warming smile. "Is that so? Well then, I see you don't need any further talking to. Go on. Get that recipe for your mother."

Al complied and made his way to the cooking section. A thousand thoughts were racing through his mind. Years ago, it seemed, that was exactly what he and Ed had been doing. But definitely for a different purpose. They needed to get their bodies back to the way they were before the, uh, incident, so Ed joined the military in the end, in order to find the Philosopher's Stone.

But how did that work out?

Edward _died_. Alphonse _sacrificed _himself to get Edward back. Edward _transmuted_ himself to get Alphonse back. It was an endless cycle. And in the end, Edward was _trapped_ on the other side of the gate, and Alphonse had completely _forgotten_ all those long four years spent searching for the Stone.

Then they found each other again, but they were thrust into another war. And what about now?

Now . . . Edward was _gone_, and Alphonse was all _alone_. Nothing had changed at all, despite which world they were currently a part of.

There was no such thing as peace, only prolonged silence. There was an every chance that a war was to break out any second. Tensions high, reasoning low. There was always an eerie calm before the bubble finally pops, unleashing terror in its wake. It was the calm before the storm.

In two thousand years of recorded civilization, there have only been 370 years of peace. What peace? What are we humans if all we can do is fight and kill each other all the time? Why must there always be sadness and pain?

Alphonse wondered. When was all this going to stop?

He reached the cooking area and looked around for the supposedly yellow book. What were the rest of the instructions? He took out the note and studied it. Ah yes . . . Yellow book, third shelf, thirteenth from the right, cooking section. Now that was in very vague detail.

Alphonse scanned the bookshelves. It would take forever for him to find a yellow book in this whole section. Cooking was deserted, yes, but it was packed full of books no one was ever going to read. Supposedly, the secret Stronghold was third shelves from that yellow book, and then thirteen to the right.

But maybe . . .

The young boy traced his finger along the crisp spines of the recipes which appeared not a day older than whence they were printed. "Maybe the instructions are _backwards_," he stated to himself. "Maybe the stronghold isn't three shelves and thirteen books to the right of the yellow book. Maybe the Stronghold _is_ the yellow book, but it's on the thirteenth bookshelf, three levels of shelves."

It had to have been. Edward probably wrote this backwards to prevent anyone else from finding this Stronghold . . . because if written backwards, it _was_ impossible to find. Genius piece of work these instructions were, but they were unneeded. They were already in a different language.

Curse Ed and his paranoia.

"Alright," Al told himself. "Time to get to work."

He backed himself up to peer at the Cooking section at large. He counted all the shelves in total. From the Cooking shelves from the very back and forward, he realized the section didn't even extend thirteen shelves. Maybe the Stronghold had never been in the Cooking section.

Alphonse was getting tired of this. He didn't need all this puzzle solving.

He counted thirteen bookshelves, and headed to the thirteenth one. Now he was in the Science area. The section extended farther back than the Cooking did, and the books were a lot older. Alphonse counted the thirteenth shelf from the bottom up. He stopped at the third one and glanced up and down the long row of books. He didn't find a yellow one.

How could he be so sure it was going to be there? What if somebody took it out? His worries from earlier came flooding back to him. He was never going to find the Stronghold if such an important book was missing.

Alphonse sighed. What would Ed do in this situation?

If the book was really that important, the idea of it being missing would have never come up. So maybe the book _wasn't_ important. Indeed, if that were the case, there would have been an empty space on this shelf, but there wasn't.

Al decided to check the back. As he scanned the third row, his eyes widened as he caught sight of a bright yellow book, standing out amongst its darker brothers. Alphonse ran over to it and studied it intently. There wasn't anything to note about it; it looked as simple and unimportant as it was. It could have been a secret lever to open a door.

He pulled on it, but nothing happened. Then he realized the book was able to slide out completely. He took it out and read the title. It said: **The Secrets of Danu Talis**

Now what was a mythological book doing in the Science section? It was simply unheard of. Whoever sorted this had to have been fired, because there was no way a mistake like could've been made. Unless . . .

Unless somebody placed it here deliberately.

Alphonse took a look at the author. The surprises kept on coming.

**The Secrets of Danu Talis, by Van Hohenheim**

So one time, his father had been here too. Maybe he was the one that put the Stronghold here in the Library of Congress. Explains why the subject had been so off for this particular section. But Al had to think that somebody could've found this book here by now.

Shaking his head, he decided to place the book back in its slot. There wasn't anything he could learn from it, really. But the name reminded him of something else . . . Yes, he'd seen it before.

He scrambled for the note, searching his coat. When he took it out, he confirmed that he did indeed hear the name 'Danu Talis' before. It was written on the bookmark he'd found in Edward's mythologies book. It was strange, though. If it was mythological, why did his father find the need to write about it?

Hohenheim was an alchemist, a scientist. The idea of a sunken city had to have been vital if _he_ had written it himself. Alphonse looked around himself before tucking the yellow book under his arm, concealing it. He was going to read it later.

But where to go from here? The book didn't activate a secret door, unless its main reason for existence was to show him the way to something or a map to the supposed 'Stronghold'. That couldn't be right. Judging from the title, it was nothing more than historical research on a city. It shouldn't even exist.

So why did Ed right it down on the bookmark?

Alphonse scratched his head. This required tons of thinking if he were to get through it. He absentmindedly took out the Amestrian coin he'd found in the safe at the cottage, and started throwing it in the air, catching it. He repeated this over and over again until he stopped, staring at it.

He wasn't thinking about anything at first, his expression was vacant. But then something dawned in him and he stepped over to peer at the slot where the yellow book was. There seemed to be a metal indentation that looked to be for a screw. But Al knew better than that.

The hole fit the coin perfectly.

Alphonse stared at the round object, holding it out and measuring it against the hole. He figured he would give it a try. Thinking back to his previous assumption of the book being not important, he guessed it made sense.

If the book were to be taken out or removed, the real way to get into the Stronghold would still remain. The book was simply a indication, a bright yellow beacon. The real key to the door was the metal slot right under it.

Whoever arranged this was a genius.

Psshh, yeah. Edward plus Hohenheim equals two halves of the same whole of ingenious. There was nothing else to call them. They feuded, they fought, and they bickered. But they loved each other, even though both were reluctant to admit it.

Al pushed the Amestrian coin into the slot. Nothing happened at first, and then there was a faint clicking, like a mechanism being unlocked. Alphonse took the coin out hurriedly and stepped back. A door in the floor slid back to reveal stairs going down, right where Alphonse was standing earlier. If he hadn't moved, he would have fallen in, tumbled down stairs and woken up with a whole new set of bruises.

Grinning from ear to ear, Alphonse climbed down the stairs into the darkness. Seven steps down, he heard the door above him slide shut behind him. He was completely plunged into blackness.

That is, until the emergency lighting switched on.

He saw now that the stairs winded down a few more levels. He must have been climbing them for fifteen minutes or more before he finally hit ground level. He stepped onto the strangely even ground and gazed at his surroundings.

So _this_ was the Stronghold. It certainly looked like one.

The first room he came into held dozens of different kinds of weapons. They ranged from hand grenades, mines, rifles, bayonets, pistols, machine guns, bulletproof shields that humanity hasn't even invented yet, gas masks, you name it.

Alphonse went into the next room and found a makeshift resting chamber for anyone that found shelter down here. There were chairs, tables, beds, desk lamps, and even a large fridge (the fridge those days were bigger than modern fridges). The room connected to another room that was probably the bathroom and showers.

He continued down the hall and came into a larger room, even bigger than the armory. It looked to be some kind of . . . laboratory. There were beakers, papers littered about, safety goggles, tons of shining silver instruments. The papers caught his eye the most. The weird thing was, all the papers were decorated with different kinds of transmutation circles.

Of course, alchemy didn't exist as he knew by now, but why even try inventing new ones if you couldn't activate any of them? It just didn't make sense.

Alphonse bent down and decided to clean everything up. He gathered the papers and straightened them out. He rearranged the glass beakers, and he even organized the specimens of rare metals that were just sitting there, gathering dust.

When he went over to put the papers down, he caught an old notebook that was bound with quality leather. The pages inside were weathered and fragile, as if they were going to crumble to bits any minute, but Alphonse couldn't resist looking at it. He gently lifted the cover and found a name on the first page.

**Property of Van Hohenheim**

Under it in smaller letters said: **Edward, I'm warning you! If you read this or even _touch_ it, rest assured, there will be DIRE** **CONSEQUENCES**

Alphonse couldn't help himself; he laughed. He hadn't done that since Edward's disappearance. It felt good to let loose the tension.

But he now knew something. When Hohenheim was actively down here, Edward was too, so that meant this notebook was probably from two years ago, when Ed just arrived on this earth. He imagined his father working away in his laboratory while Edward tagged along like a lost puppy.

He resisted the urge to laugh some more. If he kept doing it, he'd go into hysteria, and he couldn't have that. He needed to keep a straight head.

He flipped more pages of the notebook and found most of it to be research notes. The later dates however, were more like journals. Alphonse read some of them, smiling as he did. Edward had hated Hohenheim, but that began to change, as the journal entries told him.

**November 21**

**I'm studying here in Washington. I took the liberty to come down here to the Stronghold. Edward seems rather excited. He said it was totally 'noobish' of me to build an underground stronghold in the powerhouse city of America, but I think he's secretly impressed. I hope he doesn't blow up anything. On second thought…**

Here the sentence cut off. Then further down, it said:

**Damn it all! I told him not to touch anything. A good section of the armory is missing. I need to rebuild everything now. Some of those weapons were antiques! I swear that boy doesn't not know anything about vintage. And where am I supposed to get all the supplies? It's not so easy without alchemy, doesn't he understand that?**

Alphonse flipped a couple of entries.

**January 4**

**I can't believe it's the New Years already. There was a quick display of fireworks around the Parliament. It was released a little bit earlier due to a certain "someone's" meddling. Edward should be glad he wasn't arrested.**

He read the next entries, which was two days later.

**January 6**

**Edward blew up the lab.**

**That's what he gets for playing with chemicals. "Trying to create a new explosive" my ass. He does it on purpose. I keep telling him that nitroglycerin is flammable, but he doesn't listen.**

**Yes, he definitely does it on purpose.**

The next entry made Alphonse dissolve into a fit of laughter. Despite the warning at the front of the journal, Edward somehow got the notebook and wrote an entry in there himself. It went like this:

**January 10**

**Stupid old man. I did not blow up the lab! It's your fault for making the walls out of freakin' sulfur! That's not a good idea, and it fucking stinks in there!**

**January 11**

**Edward, the walls weren't originally sulfur. You turned it into sulfur after you blew up the lab. And I ought to wash your mouth with soup for swearing like that, in MY journal no less! Now get out of here!**

**January 11**

**BITE. ME.**

**P.S. The shower's broken, Dad. Could you fix it? Thanks.**

Alphonse flipped a few dates into the future.

**January 25**

**Oh, Lord, what a day. I spent hours of my life at the police station because Edward somehow got himself arrested. I knew it would happen some day. Honestly, I expected it sooner than this. Sometimes, I wonder how he does it. I'm not letting him wander the town alone ever again.**

**The President is **_**not**_** happy. Is he allowed to execute Edward? If he is, then I will be spending more hours at the police station, and using up more of it to write up his death paperwork. Sheesh. It's only because of my _name_ I managed to get him out of there. He's notorious as well, if you count that in a mafia sense. **

He flipped more dates. He was nearing the end of them. Not to the end of the journal, because it was only three quarters filled. The next one landed on a particular date.

**February 3**

**It's Edward's birthday. I wonder what I'll get him. He'll probably bat it aside like it's nothing, but it's happened before. In the middle of the night, he creeps near the present and takes it. The next day I ask him about it, and he decides to play innocent.**

**I know he likes his presents. What a kid.**

**February 4**

**What the hell, Dad? I'm 18 now! You can keep treating me like I can't handle myself properly!**

**February 4**

**That's because you can't. But that's not the point I'm trying to make, here. Edward, get out of my journal. Don't you understand the meaning of 'privacy'? Anyway, you're still 17 to me, but you're always going to be that immature 15 year old back then. You never change.**

**February 5**

**Shut up!**

**P.S. I guess I should say it. Thanks for the present, Dad. The . . . uh, eagle carving was nice. Did you do it yourself? Thanks for the books too. I know I'll be enjoying Hamlet. **

**P.P.S. Was it really your idea to gift me with a gun? Do you know what will happen when I use one? Dad, you've just put a whole lot on the line by giving me this firearm, and I don't mean just lives. I'll hang it up in my room for decor, 'kay?**

That wasn't the end of it, but Alphonse decided to put down the journal. So Hohenheim was the likely person to have made the Stronghold. That made sense. But what for? Why _here_, under the Library of Congress? What was so special about this particular place?

Alphonse skimmed through the journal again until he came by a picture of an elaborate transmutation circle. And then he realized it was rather oval in shape, instead of a perfect circle and came to the conclusion that it was a gate.

A gate to where? It couldn't be _the_ Gate. That was only accessible by a proper transmutation circle. But it looked so similar to this oval gate. Maybe it had the same properties? It could be used to transport people from place to place.

Under the picture, however, one word was scrawled there. It was called a **Leygate.** Whatever that was.

Alphonse flipped the page and came by a journal entry.

**August 30**

**I have other business in Europe. Edward insists on coming with me. He's excited about the idea of a Leygate. I tell him it takes you places around the world due to a phenomenon called 'Ley lines', and he gets even more impatient. That'll be the end of him.**

**I don't let him come with me. It's far too dangerous anyway.**

**This particular point in the city connects several—half a dozen, actually—Ley lines. The gates on the other side of these will connect to the other Strongholds I've built over the years. A fellow immortal is stationed there. I just hope it hasn't been found by any Dark Elder yet. Or worse . . . **_**Dee**_**.**

Alphonse blinked. _Dee . . . _Could it be the same Dee he had met earlier? What was so bad about that man? Al did come to the conclusion that he was immortal, but not a bad person. If his father thought he was, then was he? Who—_exactly_—was Doctor John Dee? _What_ was he?

The only way to find the answer was to read on. Alphonse resisted the urge to speed on ahead. He needed to read _everything_, no matter how insignificant it was.

**The Leygates that the ones here connect to are also connected to others. This way, I'll be able to travel the globe in seconds. I cannot tell Edward this. The boy is much too prideful about Alchemy. The Leygates aren't subjects of it. Instead, they are magic. If he finds out, he would never let it go.**

**I tell him to take care of the place in the mean time. I hope it's still intact when I get back.**

That was the end of it, and Alphonse shut the notebook. He figured he would take it—along with the yellow book he 'borrowed'. For now, he had to focus on these 'Leygates' because they seemed important in finding Ed.

The idea of Leygates and Ley lines defied all he believed in, but he took it better than Ed would. Magic . . . So it was real. In fact, it was coexisting right alongside Alchemy. Humans on this side of the Gate believed alchemy didn't exist—couldn't exist. Why couldn't magic be real as well?

That was the thing. If Edward disappeared via a Leygate, then perhaps Alphonse could find him using one too. Just where were the Leygates in this Stronghold? Probably deeper into base, deeper into the dark depths, were untold secrets were held.

Unconsciously, Alphonse shuddered. Something rang him bone-deep; two words that stood out from the rest of the journal entry. **Dark Elder**. Who were they, exactly? Judging by the name and the other name it was beside—Dee—he guessed these people were ancient old beings that controlled Dee. But if they were so powerful, why did they need a mere human to do their bidding?

That was something Al didn't get.

Shaking his head, he left the laboratory and went further into the Stronghold, stopping once and a while to inspect the rooms, if they contained a 'Leygate' that looked like the one illustrated in Hohenheim's notebook.

He came by a Dojo once, and another room that looked suspiciously like a ransacked kitchen. The biggest room in the Stronghold, he guessed, was the library. It was half the size of the entire Library of Congress. It contained books that seemed impossible to exist. They were indeed rare antiques, collections bought and found over the years.

Some of the book titles were in languages Alphonse couldn't even comprehend. He'll come back and check them out later when he found the Leygate room.

He couldn't imagine anyone living in here. Sure it was nice and well-taken care of, but the air was musty and grimy and FOR GOODNESS' SAKE! It was UNDERGROUND. You could literally contract cancer from the noxious fumes floating around from the laboratory.

An hour of exploring later, Alphonse came by the last room in the Stronghold. Well, it wasn't the last room. The real last room was the closet, but closets don't count. The room he stopped at now had to be the Leygate room.

Unlike the rest of the rooms, this one had a large concrete door, as if it was containing something dangerous and powerful inside. Alphonse placed his hand on the concrete door and ran a quick diagnostic. The concrete door seemed to be filled with lead. But why?

He was surprised when he found out he could perform an alchemic diagnostic. He supposed it was because of the _power_ behind these humungous doors. They literally radiated energy that Alphonse took to perform his diagnostic. It wasn't complete alchemy, but it was something. He doubted he could perform alchemy anyway, seeing as the energy wasn't enough, but it gave him hope.

If the Leygates were created by magic—_were_ magic, then that and alchemy had to be connected somehow. The thought disturbed him.

Alphonse pushed the concrete doors open, heaving with all his might. It was heavier than it looked. When the doors gave away, he stumbled forward into a dimly lit room. When he came to, he realized the room wasn't lit at all. The light came from the Leygates themselves.

He was transfixed on their elaborate beauty.

Alchemic symbols donned their sides, large mirrors shining back at him. On the other side of the mirror, he caught glimpses of a room rippling in and out of focus. They were like reflections, pictures. But then he realized the pictures were actually moving.

On the other side of one Leygate, a man was talking to another woman, both of them in a heated argument. If Alphonse could see them, then he supposed they could see him too. This was confirmed as he noticed another figure moving about in another Leygate.

He snapped his head in that direction and caught sight of an old man, staring back at him with widened eyes.

Alphonse gave him a wave. "Hello," he said. "How're you doing?"

The old man held a hand to his ear. He said something along the lines of "I can't hear you" and Alphonse guessed that although he could see people, he couldn't hear them. His father had written that one was able to travel through a Leygate. Should he do it?

By now, the man and woman that were arguing took notice of him and wandered over to their Leygate, staring at him strangely. They were dressed in odd clothing, and the old man looked like a homeless living on the streets.

The hobo man tapped something on the side of his gate, making the image shimmer out of focus. When it settled again, the image was sharper, almost realistic. When the man spoke, Alphonse heard him perfectly.

"…you come to be here, boy?" the old man was saying. His voice lilted with a slight British accent, so Alphonse suspected he was from around England.

Al blinked intelligently. "Sorry—what?"

The hobo sighed, exasperated. "How did you come to be here, boy? You are not Van Hohenheim, nor that"—he wrinkled his nose—"dreadful Edward boy. Though you look alike enough to be related to them."

"I'm Hohenheim's son," Al said. "Edward's younger brother."

The man squinted into the mirror. "Really? But you're taller than him."

Alphonse laughed. "Just don't say that to his face."

"Oh, I do," the man said. "He just hasn't killed me yet."

The man and woman on the other Leygate tapped their mirrors too, and the process of blurring and refocusing the image was repeated. When they spoke—to Al this time, not arguing to eachother—he could hear them well.

"The Washington Leygate has been empty for quite a while," the man said.

The woman nodded. She had close-cropped hair and a young, boyish face. "I wonder what happened to Hohenheim." They were both French, judging by their accent.

"He's dead," Al said, barely managing to keep himself from choking up.

The old hobo, the man and the woman froze. "WHAT?" they demanded in unison. "The great Hohenheim is gone?" "That cannot be!" "The old man can't possibly be beaten that easily!" "He's not immortal, but he can't die that easily." "No wonder Washington has been empty." "How couldn't we have known about this?" "Who killed him? I swear I'll hunt him down."

Alphonse held up his hand. "No one killed him. He sacrificed himself."

The three people settled, though they bristled with anger.

Hobo man spoke up. "That makes sense then. But who would he sacrifice himself for?"

"His son," Alphonse replied. "Edward Elric."

The woman let out a small gasp. "I know Ed gets himself into trouble a lot, but what kind of trouble that's so great, Hohenheim felt the need to kill himself to save Edward? That just doesn't make sense. Why would he do that?"

The man beside her put a hand on her shoulder. It almost looked . . . affectionate, and Alphonse wondered what they were arguing about before. "Where is Edward now? Is he safe?"

Al shook his head. "He disappeared three days ago. I've been searching for him since."

"Got a clue on where?"

"Nowhere. He's vanished off the face of the Earth."

The man wiped his face tiredly. "Lord, help us all. I hate doing Hohenheim favors. But now that he's dead, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore. Well, I guess we know what we're going to do now, right, Joan?"

The woman, Joan, nodded her head. "Of course. We have to get Ed back."

"I'm not helping," Hobo man said.

"Why not?" the man in the other Leygate demanded.

Joan put her hand on his shoulder. "Calm, Saint-Germaine. Let's hear Gilgamesh out."

Gilgamesh crossed his filthy arms. "I don't hold a grudge against Hohenheim, but I'm not going to save his son. The guy thinks he can do anything when he's crossed over into my realm. He's got a think coming."

"What realm?" Saint-Germaine asked. "You live on the streets."

Alphonse watched them bicker with mild interest. He should really be using his time to find Edward, not watching a bunch of immature adults fight amongst eachother. He sighed, and the sound made them stop.

"Look," he began firmly, "are you going to help me find Edward or not? I'm not forcing you to, but remember, we're wasting valuable time here. You can argue, or you can hear me out. What's your plan?"

Joan and Saint-Germaine looked at eachother, back to him, and then nodded. Their mouths were set in determined scowls. Gilgamesh looked indifferent.

"Fine," Al said to Gilgamesh. "Don't help." He took a breath. "Now, can you all tell me your real names, since we're evidently on the same side? I want to know who we're working with here."

"Kid, how old are you?" questioned Gilgamesh. "Have you been in the military? 'Cause you sound like a commander."

"Just answer my question."

"I'm Gilgamesh the King," he grumbled. "A pleasure to meet you."

"I'm Joan of Arc or Jeanne d'Arc as the French call me," Joan said.

"I'm the Comte de Saint-Germain, or simply Francis," the count said. "Pleased meet your acquaintance."

Alphonse smiled. "I've actually heard of some of you. And to think the most famous warrior in history hadn't died at all and was immortal this whole time . . . Well then, since you've told me your names, I should do the same. It's Equivalent Exchange after all. I am Alphonse Elric"—he slipped into German—"brother of Edward, and son of Hohenheim."

Gilgamesh, Joan, and the Count were indifferent, seemingly understanding his words.

Alphonse acknowledged them back. "Now that we've got the greetings over with, shall we get started?"

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter. The following one, however, will be much more interesting. Adventure and pure badassery await you next chapter. 'Til then!<strong>

**Edit: Rewriting STILL. This chapter made me grimace. Oh, goodie, lots of stuff to reread and reedit.**


	6. VI: First Contact

**Wazzup, people? I'm back with another chapter, and I must say... I LOVED WRITING IT. It's just pure badassery, and I hope you think so too. Homework's been piling up and my assignments have been total crap, but just writing this makes me feel so much better. (I know I should be finishing those assignments, but I can do them tomorrow. That's what weekends are for, right?)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF.**

**On y va! (Which means "Let's do this." in french.)**

* * *

><p>When Edward finally woke up, he knew he wasn't in Kansas anymore. All right, it was Texas, but you get the reference.<p>

Anyway, when he woke up, he was still in the train compartment. His ride was jerking around, so that meant he was still moving, but he noticed the machine was going slower than usual. That could only mean one thing—it was nearing its destination.

Which meant he missed his stop.

Damn it, he was supposed to stop in West Virginia! Where was he now? Judging by the sun, he was nowhere near the east coast. Did the train turn the opposite way? Was it heading towards the west instead?

"Stupid," Ed chided himself, standing up and sticking his head out the compartment.

He saw farm houses and fields and many animals. There were trees and green grass everywhere. But there telephone lines and electric cables, which meant he was near the city. Pretty soon, warehouses and larger streets came into view, and he knew he was heading the wrong way.

Running to the other side of the compartment, he slid the door open and . . .

He came face-to-face with the ocean. Moreover, the _Pacific Ocean_. That wasn't the right ocean! It was supposed to be the Atlantic Ocean. The train probably switched tracks somewhere along the lines of his nap, and he was so tired he couldn't notice the difference and slept right through it. Yup. He definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Edward leaned against the compartment door, mentally exhausted. He had enough. He had enough of all this crap and bad luck. It was going to take such a long time to get back to the other side of the country. He almost felt like not doing it anymore.

But he had to keep moving forward. He was going to be stuck in this time forever if he didn't.

He decided to ride the train a little bit more, to see where it was headed. Better yet, the next city the train went through, he was going to jump right off. He wanted to do it now, but he was going to get more help in a city than the country.

The alchemist sat down, legs dangling off the side, a few feet from touching the tracks. He passed by some kids herding cows, and waved to them. The kids stared at him with wide-eyes, and then shot right off, calling for their parents.

Edward spared himself a good laugh. He hadn't done that in a while. For the past few days—well, if you wanted to go by chronological order, then _years_—his life had been all serious and political, but now, he could really relax. If he really was in the 21st Century, and the world wasn't blackened and obliterated, then that meant the Uranium bomb was eventually stopped anyway, with or without his help.

He sighed, watching the blue waters in the distance sparkle in the sun. Maybe this _wasn't_ bad luck.

So what if he wasn't heading for Virginia? Did he expect Al to be there, waiting for him? For all he knew, Al was likely dead, or if not, very old. He had no business in Washington anymore. He might as well use his time to ponder what Truth wanted with him.

The White Being had recently given him the knowledge of all the languages on this earth. Maybe he was supposed to be some sort of multilingual translator? Or perhaps he'd come across an ancient stone tablet that couldn't be deciphered without the proper knowledge?

They were floating around his head, merely gossamers of whispers that he could call upon anytime he wanted to. He didn't know what they meant, but for some reason, he understood it.

When he thought about one particular language, he found himself drawing out that thin thread among the dozens, and focus on it separately. When he thought about it—either too hard or too much—he lost the ability to understand it. The thin strand would break and disappear into his mind again.

Edward guessed that in order to fully use these languages, he had to call upon instinct. He had to not _try_, but merely act on it as if it was as easy as understanding why grass was the way it was.

But why languages? Why did Truth feel such a need to implant this knowledge first, instead of other, more important ones?

"Is it supposed to help me?" Ed said, thoroughly confused. All it had done was brought him pain. Nothing more, nothing less.

Green hills rolled by, and the grasslands soon disappeared. There were more cars, more lights and even more people. Soon, he began to see large buildings in the background and thousands of houses. The train kept going along, moving closer and closer into the city. The noises became louder. The streets, he saw, got busier.

When the train eventually crossed the city borders, Edward caught sight of one thing. It was a sign and it said: **Welcome to Sunny San Francisco!**

Ah. So he was in San Francisco. He had been in this city before, but only briefly. Back then, it was a small town; not so big like it was right now. He had to say . . . about a few million lived in and around this city at the moment.

The train speed was prominent now; it showed that it was slowing down. Edward picked out the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance and chose that moment to get off. He went back inside to get his backpack, and then he braced himself at the edge of the compartment. Taking a deep breath, he hopped off the train and stumbled a few steps until he got his bearings. Studying his surroundings, he figured it was a short distance to the Bridge. Once there, he could get a better view of the city.

He had found out quite a while ago that when you're up high, all your worries and confusions suddenly become clear, as if you could take on anything. He wanted to be high up, so that maybe his predicament would feel . . . less bothersome.

So Edward Elric set off. A few seconds later, he stopped, frowning. In his head, he thought, _Something is_ _off._ He looked up and froze.

Why was there a big, black cloud in the sky?

His eyes narrowed. How strange. It was a bright, sunny day without a trace of a cloud in the sky. If there was to be a cloud, it would be white, not black. Even if it was a storm cloud, the colour would be dark grey, not jet black. So why…?

Edward's eyes widened. The cloud was moving, _writhing_. It was rippling, as if it was made out of a million shadows. It was heading closer and closer to the Golden Gate Bridge, at a much faster pace than a normal cloud—even on a windy day.

"That's no cloud," he said, breaking into a run.

It was a mass body of onyx black birds.

* * *

><p>"Keep going, Josh!" Nicholas urged. "Just keep driving!"<p>

"But they're gaining on us!" Josh said desperately.

"That's why you _keep driving._"_  
><em>

"What do we do?" Sophie asked. "They'll be on us any second."

Scathach brought out her nunchaku. "We'll do what the human race has been doing for centuries—we fight."

"Not in this condition, we don't!" Flamel said. He tapped Josh's seat. "Just keep going. We're nearly there!"

"Nearly where?"

The small group had spotted the cloud of black crows heading their way, and Nicholas knew what that meant. Those weren't ordinary crows. They were much more perceptive, cunning. They were the Morrigan's crows. And probably, not far behind them, the Elder was approaching. That was bad news.

"We're not going to make it in time," Scatty said, peering out the window, mouth set into a scowl.

The first of the crows had already landed on the bridge. Then dozens followed, and soon the Golden Gate Bridge was enveloped in a thick cloud of black, swarming aviates. Not a heartbeat later, they all swooped down in collected unison and attacked the cars.

The traffic Josh Newman had been weaving in and out of seconds ago had come to a standstill. He, however, continued to drive, fighting to get away from the swarm of crows. The other vehicles were not so lucky, but the crows' target wasn't them.

They were hunting for the immortal Nicholas Flamel.

"Come on, Josh!" Nicholas encouraged. "You can do it!"

Josh floored the pedal, going faster, but then the crows began attacking. They landed on the car—on the windshield first, blocking his vision. He was forced to stop the car. Flamel was not happy.

"What are you doing? Keep going!"

Josh whipped around. "Would you rather we die if I did?"

The Alchemyst shut his mouth. He was about to say something else, but then the distinctive sound of tapping stopped him. All four passengers turned their heads upwards, towards the roof of the car.

"What . . . is that?" Sophie asked, trying to distinguish the sound.

"I'm no expert," Scathach said, "but I'm guessing the crows are trying to break in?"

Nicholas nodded grimly. "These aren't ordinary crows . . . They are the Morrigan's crows."

"Never liked her," Scatty remarked.

"How do we get them off?" Sophie asked. The birds were pecking through the windshield. One of the birds managed to get their razor sharp teeth through a tiny chip in the glass. Holes were already starting to form on the ceiling as well.

Scathach whipped her nunchaku at their beaks, and the birds squawked angrily in retaliation. They retreated—but only for a while.

"Josh, listen to me," Flamel said, leaning forward. "You have to keep going—it's the only way!"

The boy shook his head. "No. I . . . I can't see, Nick. If I do, I might hit something, or—"

Suddenly, Sophie reached forward and hit the windshield wiper option. The wipers caught the crows off-guard, and they flew off for a few moments. It was only for a few seconds, and they were already starting to calm down and land back on the windshield.

"That sort of worked," she muttered.

"No time for that," Flamel snapped impatiently. "The Morrigan could be here any second, and if we don't at least try to escape, then we're done for. I don't want to do it, but it has come down to this."

"To what?" Josh asked, voice pitched high.

Before he even finished the sentence, the car was filled with the distinctive smell of mint. When Josh looked back at the Alchemyst, he could see a green line form around the man. It appeared almost solid.

"I will get them off," the Alchemyst explained. "But you'll have to do the rest."

Josh was about to ask what he was planning on doing, but Sophie interrupted him. "Josh—Go!"

He pushed down on the pedal, and the van lurched forward. It appeared to work at first, but the crows managed to get their bearings and block off their sight again.

"There's no end to them," Scatty growled. "Let's just get out there and fight them."

"One by one?" Sophie asked. "I don't think so."

Just then, there was a bright light from somewhere outside. When Sophie looked hard enough, she realized the light was coming from all around her, not just in one particular place. She voiced this thought, but Scatty shook her head.

"No. The light isn't coming from the outside. More specifically, it's coming from the outside of the _car_."

"What?" Josh said, making sure he heard right. "Outside of the car? Did you do this?" He turned to Flamel, expecting an answer.

But the Alchemyst shook his head. "It is not of my doing."

"Whatever's happening," Sophie said, "the birds don't like it. Look." She pointed out the window, and she could see all the birds flying hurriedly away from the van. Some of their feathers were smoking. Few birds even caught fire. What in the world?

"Is this—?" Scatty started. ". . . I think this van is on fire."

"No," Flamel said. "Not on fire. The metal's just suddenly raised its temperature. Who caused it is the mystery."

"Are we going to be okay?" Sophie asked.

The man nodded. "It's not danger to us. By the looks of it, whoever did this is quite the expert. It could be an ally of mine, but I'm not completely sure. Shall we see who has joined us?"

The Newman twins looked at eachother.

From the outside of the van, they heard a sinister cackling.

"The Morrigan has come."

* * *

><p>Four years of service in the military at the ripe age of twelve had come in handy a lot of times. Edward was sort of glad he had the experience. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to run a whole mile without stopping to take a breath.<p>

While he ran, he kept asking himself why a mass of birds flying towards a bridge was so dangerous. If he thought about it, he would admit it was stupid. But the thing was, you would _never_ see such a large group of birds flying TOGETHER towards THE SAME DESTINATION. Except in migrations, of course. But this was no migration. They had a purpose.

_I don't know_, he thought. _Something about this seems . . . ominous._

Panting slightly now, he did a roundabout and jumped onto the bridge. He tore through the street, dodging people, ignoring the traffic beside him. One thing he noticed about everything was that the closer he got to the middle of the bridge, the more hectic the traffic became.

In the center of the Bridge, many cars were parked and people were out of them, taking—wait for it—pictures. Pictures. Why? Danger was approaching, and they were backing up even more cars. This was going to attract a lot of attention.

Edward kept running. He looked up and saw that most of the birds were already gathering; some were up on the pillars, others sat on the roof of cars and the rest . . . were attacking a run-down van a few yards away. Edward bolted towards it.

Why weren't they attacking the other cars? Well, some were, but they weren't exactly swarming and pecking the hell out of the metal. Edward couldn't worry about those people. He had to focus on the van over there. Why were the birds attacking that one only?

Unless those birds weren't really birds.

He had seen weird things in his life, too many to name. Most of those things were more scary than weird, but all the same. He knew that those birds up there weren't ordinary birds. Every one of them seemed to have this intelligent glint to their black beady eyes that told you immediately that they were listening to every word you said.

They had a purpose. They were sent by somebody to attack a certain group of people and they were bent on killing. And Edward knew what to do at that point: He had to save them, because they didn't look to be fairing so well on their own.

He ran towards them at a neck-breaking pace, weaving his way around cars and occasionally jumping over them. When he was nearly upon the van, he could see millions of birds—crows, he realized now—pecking away at the metal and poking holes in every surface they could find.

Edward wondered how the tires hadn't gone yet, but he supposed the crows knew they couldn't get whoever by blowing out the tires. Or could they? It reduced their victim's mobility, an advantage towards a hunter.

But crows weren't hunters. They were scavengers. Whoever sent them wanted their prisoners to be taken alive.

He couldn't let that happen—he _wouldn't_ let that happen.

Edward clapped his hands together, lightning dancing widely around his body, and slammed his hands into a free space on the car. The process began: Comprehension, he ran a quick diagnostic of the metal components . . . Deconstruction, he started breaking down the elements . . . Reconstruction, he rebuilt and changed the composition of the metal, rubbing the atoms together creating friction, turning it red hot to the touch.

He backed away, watching as the crows reacted to the searing metal. They squawked with surprised and flew off in every direction. Their feet were charred, their feathers were burned and smoking and some caught fire and dropped to the ground like flies. Edward unconsciously felt a pang in his gut. He literally _felt_ them dying, them taking their final breath as their lives shriveled away. He angled his gaze away, trying to ignore that horrible feeling.

He turned back to the van. Without all the crows, one could clearly see the molten, glowing metal of the van. As the metal reacted to the cool breeze, it let off a loud _hiss_ and steam billowed into the air. It was already starting to cool.

Edward didn't have much time left. The crows were going to be on the van again, and next time, they weren't going to show any mercy.

And then he heard sinister cackling. Actually, it sounded more like angry choking. Or a bird trying to laugh. Either way, it didn't sound pleasant. Edward looked up, towards the source of the laughing, and saw a giant bird standing on the piller right in front of him.

When he squinted harder, trying to see it more clearly, he realized the bird wasn't a bird at all. It was actually a person, with a cloak of feathers and dressed entirely in black. He identified the gender as female.

_She's probably the one commanding the crows,_ Ed concluded. He instinctively went into a fighting stance.

The woman was glaring at the red hot van, like her gaze could set it on fire. The van was already on fire, but that wasn't the point. She looked really, really pissed.

"Hey, bird lady!" Edward called to her.

Her black eyes switched on him, but he couldn't really tell because her whole eyeball was black, with no white showing. She sneered, and her feather cape ruffled.

_What's her problem?_ he wondered.

"Foolish humani," she growled. "You have no idea with whom you are dealing with here."

Edward tilted his head to the side in confusion, and that only seemed to make Bird Lady angrier. _What is she talking about? _

"You, boy," she said to him. "Are you the one who set the van on fire, harming my crows?"

"I don't know," he said. "But one thing I can tell you—the van's not on fire. And maybe if your crows were smarter, they'd realize that and—Oh, suggestion!—never come back."

Bird Lady bared her fangs. Maybe she didn't take sarcasm well? A little voice at he back of Ed's mind kept squeaking, _Idiot, don't provoke her!_ But like always, that voice was only so loud.

"You will pay for such words!" growled Bird Lady. "Do you know who I am, boy?"

Maybe this situation would have been more on the serious side if Ed stopped dubbing her 'Bird Lady', so let's cue the knowledge onslaught.

Edward blinked, brief images flashed through his mind. His head throbbed with excruciating pain, but he gritted his teeth, trying to suppress it. He couldn't afford to show weakness here on the battlefield. His enemies would use that to their advantage, and he couldn't give it to them, not if his life called for it.

_The Crow Goddess: Dangerous, beautiful, deadly…_

_Death, Scourge, Destruction…_

_Of the Next Generation… Who were they?_

_She was the Morrigan, Badb, Macha…_

_She was the Goddess of Three Faces._

_Morrigan._

"Sorry," Edward said, eyebrows set in a hard line, "I have no idea who you are."

The Morrigan smiled a cruel, cold smile. "Pity. You have such a peculiar power; I would hate to kill you. Tell me, what exactly did you do to the vehicle?"

"Why should I tell you?" he demanded.

The Crow Goddess played with her long, black pointy nails. "You don't know what _pain_ I can cause you, boy. You may have diverted my plan for now, but that's not going to stop me from getting _them_ eventually." She directed his eyes to the van, referring to the people inside it.

Edward seriously wondered why they hadn't taken the opportunity to escape yet. They were probably watching his exchange with this Morrigan woman. This _goddess._

"In that case, there's no reason for me to give you any information." He clapped his hands, but the Morrigan showed no reaction. Phase 1 complete. "I'll have to ask you to leave now."

"And why should I?" she said cautiously.

"Because you've paid a heavy price today," Edward replied. "And I'm afraid that's all the Equivalency you're going to get."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she growled.

He shook his head. "You don't need to." He set his hands apart, left hand hovering over his right, reading to transmute his auto-mail if he had to. "If you choose to continue this, then I'm afraid I'm going to have to stop you. I don't know why you're doing this, or even why I'm helping whoever you're chasing, but . . ." _Something just doesn't sit right with all of this._

"You fool," the Morrigan said. "You have no idea who you're dealing with!"

She lunged for him, black claws extended to kill.

"Your choice," Edward said, closing his eyes.

In one smooth motion, Edward pivoted his stance and batted away the Morrigan's claws. Without falter and switching his momentum, he had a steel blade poised right at her throat. The blade seemed to have come from nowhere. He finally opened his eyes, and the Morrigan stared back at pools of liquid gold. They were burning bright with fire.

"Tell me," he said. "Exactly _who_ am I dealing with?"

The Crow Goddess snarled at him, backing away until she was standing a good twenty feet far from him. Her feathers ruffled and wrapped around her slender form.

"What's wrong?" Ed asked in a mocking tone. "Are you afraid of a tiny knife?"

He held up his transmuted auto-mail, a whole foot long of sharp steel to its finest shine. He had already prepared himself to transmute it beforehand, and he was glad he did. The Morrigan was fast—faster than he thought. Good thing transmutation could happen in less than a Nano-second.

The Morrigan, meanwhile, was cowering behind her cloak. She hissed venomously.

"What's wrong?" inquired Edward. "Don't tell me you're afraid of some _fool_."

"Don't insult me," the Crow Goddess said, trying to sound sarcastic. But her voice quavered. "It is merely your weapon. Tell me, boy, what is the blade made out of?" She also wanted to know how he had produced one so fast, but the boy was talking about 'Equivalency' earlier. It sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it.

Edward tapped his auto-mail blade against his leg, wondering if he should answer. "Hmm. I don't know. Why, does it matter?"

"Of course it does, imbecile!"

"If you must know," he said, rolling his eyes at her, "it's steel. But judging from the diagnostic . . . I should say it's about 10% iron for fortifications, 15% titanium for strength, and 5% aluminum for the lightness." He lowered and lifted his arm. "Yep. Definitely lighter than last time. And I'm still growing!" He smiled, genuinely happy, a little bit out of character if you're looking at the whole scene.

The Morrigan gave him an odd look. "Shouldn't you be paying attention to me? Because I could practically slice off your head right now."

Ed scoffed. "You're bluffing. The Great Morrigan is afraid of my weapon. The metal composition scares you half to death. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Why should I tell you?" she said, taking a step backward.

"You don't need to," he said. "I know exactly who you are. Your familiars are crows. You're trying to hunt down some people. You're physique isn't even human. Is it really off the bat for me to say that even metal could be poisonous to you?"

"You're sharp for one who asks such idiotic questions," the Morrigan huffed.

"What idiotic questions?" Edward shrugged and smirked. "After all, those 'idiotic questions' only gave me the answers that I wanted. Thanks for that, by the way."

The Morrigan was temporarily shocked dumb. "You k-know nothing about me!"

"Know nothing?" he said. "Come on. You basically confirmed all my theories!"

"No, I didn't!"

"What part of you didn't? All right, maybe you didn't right out say yes, but you didn't deny it either." He waved his auto-mail blade in front of him, studying it with amusement. "So why does metal affect you so much?"

"Iron," the Morrigan spat bitterly, "is poisonous to my kind."

"Oh? And what is your kind?"

"Like I'll tell you, insolent brat!"

Edward's eyes got abnormally dark. "Was that a short joke?"

The Morrigan ignored him, which was probably a wise decision. "The iron in your weapon shouldn't even affect _me_, but it's radiating some kind of unknown, old power. It's not like the iron found on this earth!" She pointed to the metal pillars holding up the Bridge. "Not like the kind making up this bridge!"

"Of course not," Ed said, as if he were talking to a very retarded child. "And yeah, I can kind of see you not melting to a liquid puddle of blackness, here. My weapon has different kind of metal that affects you. So what?"

He was expecting to get another hot shot-back, but all he got was a smile. It was the kind of smile that said someone had won. Edward didn't like that kind of smile.

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

The Morrigan tapped her black fingernails against her arm. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"I've been _stalling_ you, fool."

"What—?" he began to ask, but was cut short as something big and black pounced at him.

He held up his right arm just in time as a set of powerful, pointy-teethed jaws crunched down on his limb. The force pushed him back a few feet, but he held his ground, his boots grinding into the pavement. His auto-mail shook as he tried to hold back his attacker.

He was staring into the face of a giant black wolf.

"This one of your pets?" he asked, voice strained because of the effort he put into holding off the huge animal.

The Morrigan smiled affectionately. "Yes. Isn't he just beautiful?"

"Oh, just _gorgeous_." Edward rolled his eyes. "And what are you going to do? Stand there and watch him get pounded to bits by me?"

The Crow Goddess' smile faded. "You underestimate him, boy. That's about the last thing you're going to ever say."

"I wouldn't count on it."

"Trust me."

Edward gave her a withering look. "You tried to _kill me_, and now you're asking me to _trust you_? No thank you."

The Morrigan's face remained vacant.

Okay. So gods didn't understand sarcasm.

Edward shut his eyes involuntarily as information flooded into his cranium. This time, it wasn't just about a specific god, but many others. He received bios on Bastet, Osiris, Isis, Mars, Hecate, and many more he didn't recognize.

This distraction caused him to lose concentration on the wolf, forcing him down on his knees. Edward gritted his teeth as the knowledge stopped flowing.

"My, my," the Morrigan cooed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That's none of your business," he snapped, focusing his attention on the giant wolf before him.

Just then, he heard the sound of a car door being opened. Could this day get any worse? He didn't need anyone stopping and watching this exchange. It seemed . . . so out of context. This was between him, this wolf, and of course the Morrigan—no one else!

Edward strained his neck, trying to see past the giant bulk of the wolf. He saw a dark haired man getting out of the van, the same one that was just attacked by a million crows. He seemed a bit shaken. Edward vaguely saw a faint glow of green around the man, but he must have been imagining it.

"Get out of here!" he shouted at the man. "I'll hold them off. You get to safety!"

For a second, he could have sworn he'd seen the man consider charging into battle. But then he swung about and entered the car again, slamming the door shut behind him. A second later, the car sped off. Edward let out his breath.

"You, me," he told the wolf. "To the finish."

The wolf growled in agreement.

The Morrigan watch the van retreat farther down the bridge. She sighed regretfully. "_He's_ definitely not going to be happy with this. Oh, well, it's his priority anyway." She glanced back at Edward. "You're not dead yet? My wolf should have easily bitten through your arm."

Edward shoved his right arm further against the wolf. "If you want it so badly, then TAKE IT!" He crammed his arm into the wolf's throat, and it choked, spitting his arm out and leaping back. Edward twisted his arm about, trying to feel anything wrong with it. Nothing came up.

He didn't have time to worry about that; the wolf was already coming back with a whole new intent to kill, and if not, maim violently.

It jumped at him. Edward got on the ground and swung his leg at it, heaving it to the side. The wolf got to its feet, slobbering and shaking its head rabidly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Edward clapped his hands together and slammed them on the ground, transmuting a cage around the wolf. It bit and clawed at its cell, but to no avail. It whined in defeat, collapsing on its stomach.

He stood, taking a good look at his coat sleeve. The wolf's teeth had ripped the fabric to shreds. A good portion of his metal arm was now exposed. He sighed irritably and transmuted them back together again. He retracted his metal arm, and fixed up his glove too.

He looked up and saw the Morrigan staring at his arm fearfully.

"W-What's that?" she stuttered.

"What's what?" he asked, tone suggesting annoyance rather than anger.

But the Morrigan cowered under his inquiry. "I . . . I saw—"

"Really," he interrupted sarcastically. "What did you see?"

"Something—something shining," she muttered. "Your arm."

"What about it?"

"You are wearing a metal glove."

"Tch." Edward crossed his arms and looked away. "It doesn't matter if you're human or a god. You're all so bloody _dense_. Count yourself lucky that I didn't kill your wolf."

The Morrigan started backing away.

Edward raised his eyebrows. _Doesn't she care about her pet? Is she just going to leave him here?_

"Where are you going?" he asked her. "Running away already?"

The Crow Goddess spread her wings and took to the sky.

"I thought you were supposed to capture somebody?" he called to her. "What happened to that?"

With one great flap of her black wings, she soared over the sky, and the current carried her away. Yet the strange boy's words still echoed in the air. Down below, she could see him staring at her calculatedly. They weren't the eyes of an enemy, or an ally.

They were the eyes of a person trying to understand.

She didn't need that. The Morrigan never needed anybody. She survived on this time on her own, with no one else as company.

But those golden eyes . . . She'd sworn she'd seen them before.

* * *

><p><strong>There you go! Another chapter done and finished. Yeah, yeah. I know. Those are the same thing. (Shut up.)<strong>

**Extras: ****_Thanks for all the reviews and alerts. They mean so much to me! BTW, in the previous chapter, Francis, the Comte de Saint-Germain, was arguing to Joan about their wedding arrangements. LOL. I know. Something so petty to argue over. I put it here because I was too lazy to edit my other document. I want to sleep, people!_**

**Thank you! And, oh yes. REVIEW PLEASE!**

**Edit: Yes, yes, still rewriting. Morrigan's dialogue makes me tick with annoyance. Must brush over everything.**


	7. VII: Arrangements and Mysteries

**I am back, people! I thought I wasn't going to update this week, and yeah, the chapter's pretty short, I know. But I tried. Thing is, school's been pretty hectic since the winter break is coming up and all. We're trying to get everything done before next Friday. There's been tons of assignments, tests, labs to hand in, and I thought I wasn't going to get any time to finish up this chapter. Next one will be longer, I promise. =)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF.**

**And so, as the Tenth Doctor** **(****_Doctor Who_****) says, "Allons-y!"**

* * *

><p>Alphonse tapped the Leygate connecting Washington to Paris. "So uh," he began. "How does this work, exactly?"<p>

The Comte de Saint-Germain shook his head, his slick pony-tail following the movement. "You have your father's notebook, do you not? I believe he's explained what a Leygate is and how it works."

"That's not what I meant." Al flipped open the notebook nonetheless. "I was actually talking about travelling through it. How does that work? Because although Dad's stated that you _can_ travel through a Leygate, he never explained how or its possible side effects."

"What are you, a rocket scientist?" Gilgamesh the King grumbled from his London Leygate.

Alphonse held up a finger. "Actually—"

"You just step through it," Joan of Arc interrupted, before Gilgamesh could say something he'd _really_ regret. "It's simple. You might feel slightly nauseous, like your insides are twisted about and you're falling down the deep hole you may never get out of." She paused, thinking it over. "It's really not that bad."

"Willst du mich verarschen?" Al said, tilting his head to the side with exasperation. _Are you kidding me?_

"No, she's not," Francis replied in the same language, German. "But anyway, why are you asking about this?"

Alphonse wondered if he should really tell them. "Well . . . I sort of encountered something like a Leygate once before, and I wanted to know if they are one in the same. Judging from your claims of its means of travelling, I've concluded that the two are different. Although . . ." He traced his finger over the delicate geometrical carvings on the Leygate. ". . . I can't help but feel as if they're connected somehow."

"What is up with you Xerxians?" Gilgamesh demanded. "Even your brother said that!"

Heads snapped around in his direction.

"What?" Alphonse said quietly.

Gilgamesh shook his head, as if ridding an unwanted thought. "Oops, sorry. That must be a memory. I have a lot of memories. Sometimes I forget important ones, and then they pop up again at a random time. Please excuse me. I don't know when . . ." The homeless man scratched his dirty head, probably recalling another one of his jumbled memories.

"What's up with him?" Al said to Francis.

The count shrugged. "He's the oldest human in history. When you've lived for that long, you tend to forget things. But you know it's really bad when he starts mixing up and confusing someone for somebody else. It gets worse and worse the older he gets."

"He doesn't show it openly, but we all know he wishes to die," Joan said sadly.

"My dad thought that, too, sometimes," Al said.

Joan smiled apologetically. "Then he got what he wanted, didn't he?"

"Yeah." Alphonse glanced down at his father's journal again. "He's actually got a few short biographies on you guys. The Comte de Saint-Germain . . . Master of Fire. Joan of Arc . . . Possesses a silver aura." He looked up. "What's a silver aura?"

"Everyone has their own distinctive auras," Francis explained. "Some are mixed, but the most powerful auras are the pure ones. Silver is one of the few rarest auras on earth. The other one is Gold, and together, they are most powerful. But the rarest, and most deadly some say, is the black aura. Even I don't know much about it."

Alphonse was confused. "But . . . you say it's as if we've got a magical force-field around us all the time."

"That's because we do," Gilgamesh said. "You know, kid, you're awfully like your brother. He never liked the idea of magic."

"That stuff's real?"

"You bet, kiddo."

"So . . . " Al pointed to Saint-Germain. "When my dad says that you're a Master of Fire, does he mean that you really _can_ command and control fire?"

Francis nodded.

"But can everyone and anyone perform magic?"

"No," Joan said. "Almost everyone has an aura, but some are too weak to be able to command magic. Others either don't have auras at all, like our Gilgamesh here, or they don't know they can perform magic, regardless of their aura level. The only way to bring out one's true potential is to Awaken them. This process is dangerous as not everyone survives through it. Others don't even need to be Awakened, as they use the time they have at hand to practice controlling their aura."

Alphonse blinked, taking in all his newly acquired information. " . . . Do I have an aura?"

He found the idea quite ridiculous, but he wasn't about to voice it out loud. He wouldn't even care if the answer was no. He was merely curious, as was every alchemist. He watched Gilgamesh carefully. The man seemed to be focusing on him intently, his eyes narrowed behind his grimy hair, seeming to see right _through _him.

"I'm afraid not, kid," Gilgamesh said finally, shaking his shaggy head. "Sorry 'bout that."

"I don't mind. If I go through this . . . Awakening process, though, will I get my own aura?"

Saint-Germain nodded. "Yes. It's extremely rare, but not unheard of. Thing is, no one has done this before because, well, it's dangerous and don't forget lethal. The stronger the aura, the more chances you'll have. But since you don't have one . . . Well, there's a 5% chance you'd get through it alive. So I don't recommend it, Alphonse."

The young Elric bowed his head, feeling slightly disappointed, which surprised him. He continued to read the profiles in his father's notebook. One particular person caught his eye, and he realized he'd seen the name before. And he had only met the man hours ago, too.

"Who's this Dr. John Dee?" he asked.

Judging from the expressions on everyone's faces, Alphonse knew this Dee man was bad news. He had a feeling before, talking to the English doctor, but now he was certain.

"You really don't want to mess with him," Gilgamesh said.

"Why not?"

"Just don't. Trust me on that, kid."

"What, is he dangerous?"

Joan of Arc nodded gravely. "More than the history books say. Actually, they leave a good quantity of his exploits out of his biography because all of the records have either disappeared or burned. And for good reason. Dee is a mad-man. Never associate with him."

"Is he an Immortal?" Al wondered.

Francis stared incredulously at the boy. "I'm surprised you know. How'd you find out?"

Alphonse quirked his eyebrow. The answer was really that simple; there was no need to ask. "Dr. John Dee was born in the 15th century, Mr. Count. If you're talking about _the_ John Dee, then I'm assuming he's lived that long because he's immortal."

"Just like your brother," Gilgamesh muttered from his Leygate. Everyone ignored him.

"But what I want to know," Al continued, "is how he's acquired that immortality."

"Well, if you haven't guessed," Joan said, gesturing to Gilgamesh, "he's also immortal, which is why he's the oldest human on earth right now. He's about ten thousand years old, is that right?" She looked over at Gilgamesh, and the King nodded. She turned back to Alphonse. "Well, there you go."

Alphonse shut his father's journal with a snap. His eyes suddenly became hard and cold. "You haven't answered my question, Jeanne."

Joan of Arc sighed. "Listen, Al. Some have acquired immortality by their own means, but most of the time, an Elder grants them the gift—or curse, depending on how you look at it. You either do that, or uncover the secret of immortality itself."

"And what would that be?" Al asked softly.

". . . I honestly have no idea."

_I know_.

"I bet Flamel would know," Gilgamesh murmured from the other Leygate.

Alphonse's eyes widened. "What did you just say?"

"I . . . I don't know."

"You said Flamel!" Al rounded on him. "This Flamel wouldn't be a man that goes by Nick Fleming would it? Nicholas Flamel?"

"Why?" Francis said, making Alphonse turn back to him. "You've met him before?"

"No!" Al shook his head vigorously. "When Ed disappeared, I did a little searching and I found out that Ed knew this Nicholas Flamel and deemed him important. I've been trying to search for him, but I ended up meeting Dee instead!"

The count's jaw dropped. "You've met _Dee_?"

"Yeah, just a few hours ago!"

"That's really not good," Joan mumbled to no on in particular. But everyone was thinking the same thing.

"Did you just _leave_ him? Did he follow you?" Francis demanded frantically.

Alphonse shook his head. "No. No! I left him. He didn't follow me. Actually, he thought I was someone else. A rocketeer by the name of Alphons Heidrich. Ed warned me to hide my true name, unless, I'm assuming, from those he trusts. That's you guys."

Saint-Germain nodded. "Yes. Listen to him. He's a hot-headed boy, but he's wise."

"I know that," Al said exasperatedly. "But Dee. What was he doing in the Library of Congress? That's what I'm worried about."

"Knowing him, it can't be coincidence," said Joan. "But we all know he has a general motive."

"He's trying to destroy humanity," Gilgamesh said, crossing his filthy arms. "He wants to bring the Elders back from their Shadowrealms—specifically the Dark Elders—and in order to do that, he wants to wipe out all those that oppose the Dark Elders' return. He's ruthless and reckless."

"Wait, wait!" Al said. "Back up. Why does he want to destroy humanity? And who are these Dark Elders?"

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oi . . . I feel like this is going to take a lot of explaining." He disappeared out of the Leygate for a while, and then came back with a stool. He sat down upon it and cross his legs. "Alright, I'm comfortable. It seems that, Alphonse, your father hasn't explained anything to you."

"He hadn't got the time. He was dead before I arrived on—" He bit his tongue. "He was dead before I found Ed. We were separated for a while."

Saint-Germain nodded. "I can understand that. And even if he couldn't talk to you, he could have at least written it down."

"Hohenheim wouldn't take the risk," Joan said, also grabbing a chair from nearby and sitting on it. "He's much too smart for that. He must have suspected that the Washington Stronghold wasn't secure. It also explains why you encountered Dee near the Stronghold's entrance. Hohenheim was right to withhold the information."

"You talk as if he's still alive," Al said.

Joan smiled knowingly. "Death isn't the end, Alphonse."

"Anyway," Gilgamesh interrupted, "Ed was supposed to protect the Stronghold, but where's he gone? Disappeared, he has, leaving you all by yourself. Some big brother he is. If you haven't come along while you did, Dee could've taken the Washington Stronghold and gotten hold of the city Leygate."

"And even worse," Francis continued, "Washington is the site for half a dozen Leygates. If he takes the Stronghold, all of our strongholds would be exposed to the Elders to take. Alphonse, I realize you have to find Edward, but you need to protect the Stronghold first. It's your priority. It was Hohenheim's, before he died, and since Edward, the eldest of you two, is missing, you would have to take the responsibility."

"But I have to find Ed!" Alphonse objected.

Saint-Germain held up a hand. "I realize your situation, and I want to find him too. But thing is, the whole world, the entire civilization, practically hangs in the balance. It's in _your_ hands. You can find your brother and doom the world, or you can protect the world and find Ed later."

Alphonse clenched his fists. Was it fate that he arrived here, in this Stronghold? Did Ed somehow know the danger the world was in? "Who exactly am I—we—up against?"

"The Dark Elders," Joan said. "And Dee."

"What's Flamel got to do with all of this?"

"Last time I checked, he was in Paris. But he's disappeared now. I have no idea on his whereabouts." She looked over at Gilgamesh. "What about you?"

"I live on the streets. What do you expect?" the King said with a gruff deadpan.

Joan turned back to Al and shrugged. "Sorry."

"But do you know anything about him?"

Francis spoke up. "No one knows anything about the Alchemyst. He's my friend, but he's never told me much. He's always been a mystery, even six hundred years ago."

"So he really is immortal," Al said in a quiet voice. He looked up. "You say he's an alchemist?"

"No. _The_ Alchemyst."

"What's the difference?"

"I'm with the kid," Gilgamesh said. "Never really did like that Flamel fellow. He tried to kill me before." He barked a laugh. "See how that turned out. I'm still here!"

Francis sighed, as if he'd gone through the same conversation with Gilgamesh a hundred times before. "Look, he didn't _really_ try to kill you. You're just mixing some things up because of that memory of yours. That's your fault for forgetting your papers when _he_ showed up. Why did you forget them? You never do!"

"It's my memory!" Gilgamesh retorted. "I forget, I forget. That's it!"

Joan rubbed the heel of her palm against her forehead. "Can you two please stop? This isn't the time for bickering."

"I'm with Ms. Arc on this one," Al said. _Jeez, sometimes I think I'm the adult_. When Francis and Gilgamesh settled down again, he asked his questions. "First thing I want to know . . . Who are the Elders? Are they different from the Dark Elders?"

"I like the kid," Gilgamesh remarked casually. "He doesn't start spamming questions at us like the last person to discover our cause. Poor lad." He shook his head sadly. "He was forced to be locked up and watch over the Mumbai Leygate."

The Comte de Saint-Germain sighed, trying to ignore Gilgamesh. "A long time ago, the Elders were considered gods. If I told you a few, you would recognize them from legends and mythologies. But they are far from it. Elders were not here on this plane first. There were others before them, and they fought for control."

"The Elders won," Joan said, taking over the explanations. "But this world was in complete turmoil. So a few Elders chose to recreate this earth, naming this Shadowrealm what it is . . . Earth."

"What's a Shadowrealm?"

"They are different dimensions connected to the main one, which is the planet we are standing on right now," Francis said. "And that's why you'll find most of them modeled after everything on this planet. Do you know about the Bermuda Triangle?"

Alphonse sighed. "How can I forget?" That was an unpleasant experience he did not want to mention.

"Well," Francis continued, "the reason why ships and planes disappear when they enter there is because there's a Shadowrealm connected to that place, and it's controlled by an Elder. There are many more places like it."

"Do those people ever get out alive?"

Gilgamesh shook his head. He looked almost . . . sad. "I'm afraid not, kid. Some eventually do, but they're locked in a world where time is a standstill and everything is layered with fog. There's no getting out. They are forced to forever drift, or fly. If they are found by the Shadowrealm residents, then they are forever lost. Some made it out because they managed to avoid them."

"That's horrible," Alphonse whispered.

"Not as horrible as what the Dark Elders are going to do to the humans," the King said. "I forgot who they are, though . . ." His eyes darted upwards, as if trying to see into his brain. "Nope, it's gone. Can someone else explain to this . . . ?" He squinted at Alphonse. "What's your name again?"

"With your memory problems, I'm surprised you don't have a shorter attention span," Alphonse said.

The Paris Leygate shimmered. "The Dark Elders were originally just Elders," Jeanne d'Arc said. "But they became separated because their cause was different from the others. The select few Elders wanted nothing to do with their plan, and retreated into their Shadowrealms. Over the next few millennia, some had chosen to side with the Dark Elders, and others remained neutral. A brave few even agreed to join _our_ cause."

"What do the Dark Elders want, exactly?" Alphonse asked curiously.

"They want to return to this earth. They want to resume control over it, to put the humans under control. But that's not all. Once they come back, they will either use the humans as slaves . . . or food. If they're nice, they'd even fix all the problems we have caused this planet. But I do not guarantee survival."

Alphonse bit his lip.

"Will you help us?" Francis asked him.

"I don't know," he mumbled. "I realize these Dark Elders—if they return—are going to cause more destruction than they can fix. Especially when they have someone such as Dee working for them. But I have to find my brother."

"How can you say that?" the count demanded angrily. "Do you realize how much lives you can help save? Why must you say such a thi—!"

Alphonse shook his head slowly, eyes shut. "No, you don't get it. Francis, I can definitely help you, but we must find Ed first. Because if he is found, you are going to save a lot more lives. The world can wait." He opened his eyes, hazel orbs brimming with determination. "Will you help me?"

Saint-Germain was about to object, but he stopped himself. He nodded. "…Yes, I—we shall help you. But in turn, you shall help us."

"I expect nothing less."

"Are we done talking?" Gilgamesh interrupted. He glanced behind himself in his Leygate. "I sense someone coming. I have to see if Palamedes kept his word. I certainly hope you didn't bring along that stinkin' William Stinkspeare," he muttered to no one in particular.

His Leygate rippled and turned black.

Alphonse turned to the Paris Leygate, pointing at where Gilgamesh was just a moment ago. "What . . . ?"

Joan waved her hand. "Ignore him. He doesn't know what he's saying. That hypocrite."

"Did he just call William Shakespeare—_Stinkspeare_?"

"Long story."

"Really." Alphonse stood back and studied his father's notebook. "So what do we do now? Do I just step through your Leygate?"

The warrior nodded. "Yes. It's no problem. I recommend holding your breath before coming through. We'll be here to catch you."

"Wait," Al said, holding up his hands. "I would need _catching_? Where is your Leygate—on the ceiling?"

Joan looked sheepish for a second. When she spoke again, her French accent was slightly noticeable. "No . . . not exactly. You'll be really disorientated when you get here, so you'll stumble around a few times. We don't want you falling off the roof or anything"—insert nervous laugh here—"so we'll be here to make sure nothing goes wrong!"

"That's reassuring," he mumbled. "Okay," he said, raising his voice, "let's do this."

Both Joan and Francis stood up and placed their stools to the side. Then they moved to either side of the Leygate, beckoning him through.

Alphonse stepped into the shimmering mirror and disappeared from reality. He fell through the black vortex, a nonexistent wind ripping through his coat. Vertigo gripped his insides and churned them around. Nausea tore through his skull, making his head pound.

Before he knew it, it was over. He tumbled into a brightly lit room. Then he realized it was the sky. It was orange and red and purple. The sun was setting.

He tripped, but someone caught him. Thin, but strong arms. His eyes felt heavy, and his arms and legs were lead.

Ironic. His brother was the one with the metal limbs.

* * *

><p>Hekate's Shadowrealm was beautiful and lush, but prehistoric. Creatures from long ago that were supposed to be extinct were not. Plants that seemed to have died out millennia ago thrived here. It was nothing like this on Earth.<p>

It wasn't Earth.

The Great Tree watched over them all, its branches reaching the ends of the sky. Its trunk was massive and ancient, pulsing with alien-like energy. A few yards from it parked a broken down van littered with millions of holes. Its wheels were popped and its batteries had died.

It wasn't going anywhere.

On the branch of the Yggdrasil grown like a balcony sat the immortal Nicholas Flamel and The Goddess of Three Faces, Hecate.

The immortal was carving around a giant apple, while the Elder was drinking tea. It looked nothing out of the ordinary, except where they were drinking tea, of course. The subject they were talking about, however, was far from your average weather-talk.

"I still don't understand how you could have lived," Hecate was saying. "The Morrigan is a formidable enemy."

"That's what I was saying!" Flamel exclaimed. "I _don't_ understand how we could have gotten out of there alive. I was ready to use my aura to fend off the crows. But then that boy came." He uttered the last words quietly, as if it was going to offend the goddess.

But Hecate seemingly ignored him. "You should not use your aura. You no longer have the Codex, isn't that right? That means the more you use your aura, the faster your aging process goes. I thought you knew better."

Nicholas sighed. "Yes, but I didn't. Anyway, the only reason why we're even alive is because . . . someone assisted us."

"You mean rescued you."

"No, we could have done this on our own."

"You previously said you don't know how you could have lived. So how can you say you could've taken care of it?"

"We couldn't have, but we would have succeeded if we tried."

Hecate put down her wooden tea cup crafted from Yggdrasil itself. "Put your ego out of the way, Flamel. It could kill you one day."

"Please," the Alchemyst begged. "I need you to tell me who that boy was."

"And how should I know?"

"I told you of his description. I'm assuming you know who he is. No one is older than you."

The goddess shook her head. "I'm afraid it's not your place to know, nor is it mine to tell you. If you want to know, find out for yourself."

Nicholas put down his knife. "Wait… You don't know, either, do you?"

Hekate's expression became annoyed. "Of course I know."

"Then why won't you tell me!"

She sighed, as if she were speaking to a little child. Well, technically, she was. "You say this boy fended off the Morrigan by himself? He produced a blade from out of nowhere and held it to her throat with skilled precision? Please. I think you already know."

Flamel narrowed his eyes. "Fine then. Don't tell me. But I think you need to know something, goddess. For the brief while I've watched the boy fight the Morrigan and her allies, I didn't see an aura around him. It's as if he doesn't even have one."

"Nonsense," Hecate said with ridicule. "One cannot simply fend off the Morrigan without an aura. With the skill you claim he'd displayed, he should have an aura. And a strong one at that." She sipped from her tea cup. "But it wouldn't matter then, anyway. There's little chance you'll meet him again."

"But I saw it with my own eyes. Or, rather, I _didn't_ see it. That boy isn't normal."

"And why should you care?" Hekate asked. "You've got the Twins of Legend, or so you say you did. The boy is nothing compared to the power they will have. It's your old age, Nicholas. It's getting to you."

Flamel didn't know whether to be glad or offended.

* * *

><p><strong>I don't know why Hekate's name is written this way. It's supposed to be "Hecate" but I dunno. Maybe the author wrote it like this on purpose. Saint-Germain is also supposed to be "Saint-Germaine". Again, I don't really know. He's supposed to be French, right? I'm not an expert, but I don't think "Saint-Germain" exists in the French language. Does it?<strong>

**Please review! It will make me very happy! BTW, thanks to all the favourite-ors, and reviewers so far. You guys keep me going with this fic!**

**_Rinnala writes_****:**

nice. For some reason I really do like the storyline Ed follows a lot more  
>than the one Al follows. Also it is contradictory if Hekate says everyone has<br>an arura (stating it to be common knowledge) and the those in the mirrors  
>taking it casually when it turns out Al doesn't have one. And awakenings (if<br>everyone has an aura even if not magically active) then an awakening would be  
>impossible because Al has nothing to awaken in the first place<p>

but I suppose... no this couldn't really be overlooked. it'll maybe cause  
>colatteral damage later on... then again it's your story. please look it over<p>

**You are very observant, aren't you? The SINF universe isn't really complete. There are only five books so far (at least in my country), and the author hasn't explained everything in full detail. That leaves amateur authors like me and others to expand on these little things I call 'loopholes'. And please remember that I do not have the books. I'm working from memory.**

**Everyone is supposed to have an aura, yes. But there are exceptions, like Gilgamesh. And since Joan and Saint-Germain know Gilgamesh, they aren't surprised Al doesn't have an aura. In fact, there are only a select few people like Perenelle that can actually see a person's aura without said person releasing it. When one starts flaring it out randomly, then it's visible to the person, because it's intentional. Other times, an aura is 'visible' because others are able to 'sense' it. So really, no one really knows how much people have no aura, and that's why there is no surprise. But everyone is supposed to have one, no matter how small.**

**Hekate's line has been fixed though.**

**For Alphonse's Awakening request. Since it hasn't been confirmed that one cannot be Awakened because they have no aura, I'm stating it's possible to get an aura after an Awakening. Think about it.**

**If I remember correctly, Gilgamesh LOST his aura after his Awakening. If one can lose their aura after an Awakening process, then it should be possible for a person to receive an aura after going through with it. But it's so unlikely they'd survive after it, the theory hasn't really been confirmed. (This paragraph has been lampshaded for future content.)**

**Remember Awakening doesn't just heighten a person's aura. It also raises all the five senses.**

**I hope that cleared everything up. If you didn't read it, well... It'll be explained a little bit in the chapters anyway.**

**Edit: Still rewriting . . . It's a common occurrence now.**


	8. VIII: The Wanderer

**Sorry, this chapter was a bit late due to the hectic week before Winter break started. We had this concert and rehearsals every day until then. Everything was supposed to be handed in, we had dozens of tests and more assignments given to be handed in when we get back to school. I try to update every weekend, and sometimes, there will be a few exceptions.**

**Anyway, please enjoy this week's chapter! Thanks for waiting.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF.**

* * *

><p>Edward watched the last of the crows disappear, leaving the sky once again blue.<p>

All around him police sirens blared. The Golden Gate Bridge was officially closed off. The people and cars present during the crows' attack were questioned and then told to go home. Police cars blocked either side of the bridge, letting the vehicles pass one by one, leaving a lot of traffic.

Thing was, no one had any idea what happened. Ed didn't know how anyone could be so dense. It's not that they didn't know the crows were attacking them, or why so many crows were gathered in one place. They simply had no idea what happened between him, the Morrigan, and her huge Dire Wolf.

Even if it was right in front of them. People saw what they wanted to see. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, that could have been blamed on the fact that they were too busy fending off the crows. But those weren't their orders. The crows were supposed to trap a certain group of people, and those people had left a long time ago in that van battered with holes.

Edward had to figure out what they wanted. But for now, it was time to move again. He had to head back down south.

"The Morrigan . . . " he murmured to himself. He raised his head to the sky, as if he'd see her gliding through it. But she was already long gone.

He wondered why she was suddenly so afraid of him. When they first met, she acted arrogant and so full of herself, treating him like . . . dirt. What did she call him? Something human, but it didn't sound the least bit nice. If she hated humans so badly, why did she leave _anybody_ alive?

The crows could have easily killed the civilians, but he didn't understand why the Morrigan didn't let them. He was busy fighting that Dire Wolf off, but he noticed most of the people were either sheltered in their vehicles or trying to fight the crows themselves. Figures why they didn't notice him.

But still . . . Did that mean the Morrigan had at least some humanity in her? She was obviously not human; some greater power, maybe, but definitely not human. So who was she working for? She said she was on a mission.

Edward sighed. He really didn't have any time to ponder this. The longer he stayed, the more suspicious he'd get, and the people here—the _normal_ people—seemed hasty to get home or wherever they were going. He had no home. But he had to keep moving, looking like he did belong somewhere, even when he didn't.

He turned toward the Dire Wolf still caught in his makeshift cage. It had now submitted to its capture and held its paws over its nose. It was looking up at Edward in self-pity. Edward gave it a tender smile.

"I can't believe she just left you here," he said. "I'm sorry for that, boy. Here—it's time you get going too."

He clapped his hands together and pressed them to the cage. Lightning flashed and the cage sank into the bridge, returning to the gravel it was before, and setting the Dire Wolf free. Realizing its lack of restraints, the wolf pounced around happily before padding over to Edward and giving him an affectionate lick on the nose.

Ed laughed and pushed the monstrous beast off of him. "Get going," he told it, "before the police find you."

With one last—almost longing—glance, the wolf turned and hopped off the bridge. Edward ran to the side and peered over the railing, but he didn't see any giant, brown fur-ball in the swirling tides of the river.

Before, they were fighting against each other—one for his life, and one with orders. But since Edward defeated it into submission, the Dire Wolf treated him like the alpha of his pack.

Strange, but Edward liked the idea.

Turning to the face the gathering now-large crowd, he figured it was time to ditch the scene.

Besides, with more people like this, it gave him a greater chance to slip by the police. He and the law never mixed together well. He'd rather not go to jail again. This time, he didn't have anyone to bail him out of it.

Walking over to his battered backpack that he'd dropped a while ago, he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. Then, he started heading back the way he'd come, back to the train. By now, it should have been loaded and ready to go. If he missed it, he was done for. The train wasn't scheduled to come back up for a whole week.

Edward shoved his hands in his coat pockets, trying to appear innocent and inconspicuous. He even tried whistling a bit or act nonchalant, slipping past everyone else. Which was going pretty well considering he wasn't dressed for the occasion. He looked like someone playing a part for a World War II movie.

Spoke too soon, perhaps.

"Hey, kid!"

The eldest Elric—he was eldest now when his father passed away—faced towards the direction of the call and saw a police man waving him over. Grumbling with discontent, he trudged over, giving everyone present a visible grimace and dirty looks. Six years of practicing this against the military payed off.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

The police man looked at his pad of paper and licked his pen. "We're asking everyone on the bridge some questions before letting them go. It concerns the mysterious crow attack. Do you know anything about it?"

"How should I know?" Edward said, shrugging a shoulder.

"The others didn't know either because they were in their cars. But since you're walking, I'm assuming you saw something. Did you have a car?"

"Does it look like I have a car?" the blond said dryly. "Because if I did, I would be _driving_ it, not _walking_. Got that all down, officer?"

No wonder these people kept asking stupid questions; they were too dumb to notice things themselves. Well, if they were so insistent on asking idiotic questions, he was going to give them idiotic answers.

The police man went on, coughing awkwardly. "Okay, so, you don't have a car. Are you old enough to have one?"

"What—does this have to do with the crow attack?" Edward nearly shouted with exasperation. He shook his head. "_Yes_, I'm old enough to have one—I'm old enough to drive, but I don't drive."

"But you look like you're fif—"

Edward held up a finger. "_Don't. Finish. That sentence._"

The police man eyed the blond warily. "O-kay . . . moving on. So you say you didn't see anything out of the particular."

"Didn't we go through this already?" The alchemist sighed. "No. No, I didn't. Although," he remarked, watching as he caught the officer's attention, "I did see someone suspicious heading in that direction." He pointed up north, in the opposite direction that the hole-dented van went.

"I see." The police man nodded and signaled for his partner. His partner started the police car. He turned back to Edward. "Thank you for helping us, young man. You have a good day. We'll track down whoever did this."

The police man climbed aboard his cruiser and radioed in for backup. Then the car sped down the Golden Gate Bridge and out of sight. Edward watched it go with lazy boredom.

He smirked.

"It doesn't matter if it's eight years, or eighty-eight years. There will always be idiots in this world." He shook his head, managing a short laugh. "I can't believe it was that easy to trick those guys. All they're going to do is hit Canada, not catch that van. Dumbass." He turned back around and kept walking. "Whatever—not even my problem."

He was only a few paces in before his stomach started growling.

He paused and glanced down at his midsection. "Shit. I hadn't eaten since yesterday!"

Well, technically, it wasn't yesterday, but it has been a few hours. Edward ran down the boulevard and off the bridge. Then he darted across the street to a nearby park, where he hoped healthy grass grew. It wouldn't matter in the end anyway.

Edward stopped by a patch of green grass and transmuted bread from it. The end result was anything but appetizing. The bread looked like mushy green ooze. It was healthy, but certainly not tasty.

He could have stopped by a convenience store and bought something there. Nah, he had money, but not the current currency. It wasn't like anybody was going to trade with him and stealing was definitely out of question. If it had been three years ago, he would have done it, but he couldn't rely on stealing anymore.

His stomach growled again. He didn't want to. The green bread didn't look tasty.

He licked his lip, trying hard not to throw up. But he was really, really hungry.

"Oh God," he murmured, and shoved the slimy thing down his throat. The squishy bulb slid around his teeth as he chewed, and he struggled to swallow it. When he managed to force it down, he literally felt the thing crawl down his throat and through his esophagus. It wasn't pleasant at all.

Edward tried not to throw up. He really did. He wanted to get the thing out of his system, but if he did, he knew he would have to eat it all over again. He could handle some mushy green bread, but he couldn't bear the thought of vomit green bread.

Thinking about it just made it worse.

He forced himself to keep going, to get back to the train. He stopped by a water fountain and washed his mouth there. He gargled and spat several times, hoping to get the horrible taste out of his mouth. He washed his hands of the sickly substance too. He wondered—if there were people watching—how they were going to react to a guy eating grass. The thought was funny in itself. They probably thought he was a homeless whack-job.

In a way, he was.

Edward wiped his mouth clean and dried his hands on his pants. And then he started off again, hoping his sense of direction wasn't too off. He had been travelling for years now, and he could memorize maps by one glance.

Still, this was a foreign land and _time_. Besides, earlier, he had been running like mad. He didn't really have the time to memorize exactly _where_ he was running.

"Just my luck," he sighed, walking in the direction that he hoped was the train.

As he made his way closer and closer to the train platform, he came across several shops and market stands. The one that was most prominent was the bakery. The smell of fresh bread and jam sent his stomach growling again. He tried not to drool as he passed the store.

Several minutes later, he caught sight of the front of the train. Well, it wasn't going to be the front for long. Again, the train whistle blew. And then it hissed for the last time. That meant the train was ready to depart.

Edward clambered onto the side of an empty compartment just as the train began moving. He held on and shimmied his way inside. There, he sat down and started to meditate.

During his time with his father those past two years ago, he'd been taught that meditating really helped to calm the nerves and to organize scrambled thoughts. He was skeptical at first—as was his nature—but he learned to incorporate it into his everyday routines.

And so he started with the breathing exercises. He straightened his back, letting his airflow become clear. Then he breathed in. He let it out. Breathe in, out. In, out. He kept doing this for several minutes until his heartbeats became slower and breathing wasn't necessary.

Then his genius mind began putting the pieces together.

Back there, when he fought the Morrigan, he had brief flashes of some sort of knowledge. No, it wasn't exactly knowledge. It was . . . like a memory. He actually saw the Morrigan, and Bastet, as what they were, and what they were now. He _knew_ them, just like that.

And then there was the fact that the Crow Goddess had spoken to him in English. He hadn't even noticed it until now.

He had learned English beforehand, and he knew it well enough, but he remembered having that ridiculous accent where his W's and V's were mixed up. Now, his English was accent-less. Perfect.

It was almost scary.

If the Morrigan hadn't thought he was authentically American, he wouldn't have gotten the chance to find this out by himself. But he _replied_ back to her in the same language, as if it were his first.

So the real question now was: What would happen if he were to encounter more enemies and spoke to them in an entirely different language? Would he realize it or put it off until he meditated again? And even worse: What would happen if he had another flash of information?

That would be disastrous, especially when facing an opponent stronger than himself.

That fight with the Dire Wolf was lucky. The huge animal was trapped unless it let go of Edward's arm. If Ed had an actual arm, he would have been dead by now. What if in the near future, he would come across someone more powerful, whose weapons were more than just jaws?

If he had a flash then, he would double over and not even realize he's just been killed.

These thoughts caused his heart to race. He mentally—with some effort—calmed it down, returning back to his original meditative state. He had to remain calm. He was safe now, safe here. Nothing could really happen in an empty train compartment. Well, it wasn't that empty; there were some boxes sitting around.

Even better, though. They could be good barriers against the outside world.

Edward delved deeper into his mind, hoping to solve his unanswered questions.

* * *

><p>The Morrigan had flown far in search of that van containing the two Newman twins, The Shadow, and that detestable Nicholas Flamel. They had escaped before, and just earlier, she'd hoped her crows would finally capture them.<p>

But then that _boy_ showed up all of a sudden, turning that van red hot. So hot, many of her crows spontaneously combusted. That boy would pay for the damages later, when she collected herself. Now, however, she had to retreat. The boy was dangerous; she didn't even think he was entirely human. What he did was impossible—and in so quick a time.

The Crow Goddess had tried following the battered van. She'd had them in her sight for a while, but then they just disappeared. Vanished, off the face of the earth. She didn't know how that could have happened. Perhaps it was some sort of teleportation, but what she did know was anything but good news.

She had failed her mission.

She'd thought when the boy sent the van away, she'd been done for. But that wasn't entirely true. Now, though, she was having second thoughts. The Morrigan _never _failed. What would the greater Dark Elders say? Shun her in front of everyone? What would the dreaded Dee do? Completely humiliate her in front of her family?

The Englishman was known for many things, and he was a sly one. The Morrigan had never completely trusted the man; he never fully exposed his emotions and thoughts to everyone. That's what made him particularly dangerous.

So the goddess decided to give up. What good would a hopeless search do? The van was already gone. There's nothing else she could do now, except to head on back to Alcatraz, where Dee was currently stationed at. The man had bought the island for the Dark Elders' purposes, and the Morrigan only had a slimmer of an idea on what _exactly_ the Doctor had placed there.

The wind carried her away, towards the Pacific Ocean. Warm saltiness wafted up her nostrils. The goddess grimaced; the air was so polluted these days. She flapped her wings several times to get the terrible smell away from her.

Alcatraz soon came into view, and she went into a steep dive. It looked as if she was going to face-plant the ground, but at the last second, she pulled up quickly—quicker than any bird—and landed gracefully on her stiletto-heeled boots. Then she ruffled the feathers and headed on in to the prisons.

Before attacking the Golden Gate Bridge, she'd met up with Dee at his company. She'd seen him pull up in his limousine, and saw how it burst into flames. She saw Perenelle Flamel—Nicholas' wife—rolling out of the burning limo, and saw how Dee desperately stumbled out of it before the engine exploded.

She feared Perenelle Flamel. The Sorceress was very efficient, that much she would admit. Perenelle's ability to utilize her aura and understand her opponents gave her an upper hand when fighting the enemy. She was resourceful and very clever.

Perenelle's spectacular display placed a small smirk upon the Morrigan's face. She may have hated the Sorceress, but she hated Dee even more. The only reason why she worked with him was because their goals were the same—to bring the Elders back to this Shadowrealm. Nothing more. Once that was accomplished, she'd kill Dee herself.

The Doctor emerged from the wreckage, his suit ruined and his eyebrows singed off. He'd approached her warily—good, she liked it that way—and presented Perenelle _and_ the Codex to her. She was unable to suppress her disgust when Dee told her the boy twin, Josh, had ripped the last two pages out of the Codex, the pages containing the Final Summoning.

She didn't really care though. It was the Doctor's fault the last two pages were missing. Him failing was all she could ever ask for. Perenelle Flamel was her prize, and she gleefully took the woman as her prisoner. For once in so many centuries, Perenelle Flamel was captive. There was nowhere for her to go. She was trapped on Alcatraz, in one of the cells deep underground, with no transportation off the rock whatsoever.

It was a win-win situation.

The Morrigan walked by dozens of cells before stopping before a rather larger one. It had a window viewing the outside. Of course, there wasn't much to see. Just grass and dirt. Hardly a sky. This was the cell where Perenelle Flamel was kept.

Dee seemed to be waiting for her there, a triumphant smile on his face.

She wanted to smack it right off. But instead, she approached him, summoning all the malice she had.

"Failed your mission, I see," the English Doctor said.

"Hardly," she said, rolling her black eyes. Well, one could not really tell if she was rolling them or not. "I was interrupted, that's all."

"Surely, you could have tracked them down," John Dee continued. "I'm sure the Morrigan can fly faster than a _beat-up old van_."

The Crow Goddess stretched her black claws, imagining them cleaving through the Doctor's flesh. "No. I tracked them down, all right. But just when I had them, they disappeared. I could have gotten them sooner if I wasn't interrupted."

"I could have done a better job," Dee said. "Besides, if they 'disappeared' as you say, that can only mean one thing."

"And that is . . . ?"

"Flamel, Scathach and the twins have entered the Shadowrealm of the goddess Hecate."

The Morrigan was slightly taken aback by this revelation. "Hecate!" she hissed. "That dreadful Elder. She has sided with no one for millennia! If she chooses to fight on Flamel's side, who knows what could happen. She could turn the tide in our campaign."

"For the worst," Dee added. "I really don't see why you couldn't have stopped them."

"I told you, I was interrupted. Unless," she said, smiling wryly, "your brain is too small to understand something as simple as that." It wasn't a subtle insult, but she liked seeing Dee irritated.

"Oh please," the Englishman said. "No kind of _interruption_ could have stalled you for that long."

"Well no," the Morrigan admitted. "It could have been longer, if Flamel wasn't so stupid to stay."

Dee turned suddenly solemn. "You know what we must do now."

"Of course." The Crow Goddess smiled. "We will gather our allies and march into Hecate's Shadowrealm. We will get the last pages of the Codex back, and we will kill Flamel. There's no reason for you to ask, Doctor."

"And how will you plan to do that?" he asked her, wary of her answer.

"Why, we're going to call Bastet."

Dee grimaced. "You know, I've never really liked her."

"I don't think she likes you either," the Morrigan replied, licking her black lips sadistically. She turned her head towards the side, to watch the door of Perenelle Flamel's cell. "You say there is no chance of escape off this island."

The English Magician shook his head. "The only way off is by boat, and the only one here is the one I'm getting on. Even if she manages to get out, I placed something here that could . . . Let's just say, _neutralize_ her powers."

The Morrigan nodded, liking the sound of that. "There is something else I wish to discuss with you, Doctor."

Dee raised an eyebrow. "Hmm? And what would that be?"

"It's something I've been wondering about," she said. "How does a person convert an object's foundation components and change them completely?"

Dee blinked several times. It seemed like such an honest question. It didn't sound as if she was asking for some other malicious purpose. "Well, uh . . ." he started. "That would be alchemy. It is not magic, even though it sounds like it. Alchemy is science, in the simplest terms. Why do you ask?" He eyed her suspiciously.

The Morrigan shrugged. "No reason. I always wondered what the trans-thing you do is. It requires large amounts of aura, does it not?"

"It's called _transmutation_. Secondly, yes, it requires an aura to perform. Transmutation is one of the most dangerous forms of alchemy."

She nodded. That sounded about right. But something else bothered her . . . like the fact that the boy's 'transmutation' process took too short a time to perform, even though it was perfect. Second thing that was strange was that he had no aura at all. "Has there been a race on earth where their eye colour was pure gold?" she asked casually.

The Doctor gave her a look that said she was crazy. "No. There is no such gene as that." He coughed elegantly into his first. "Now if you'll excuse me, Morrigan, I have to make preparations for a capture. Call for Bastet. We are hunting down Flamel."

* * *

><p>When Edward opened his eyes again, the sun was setting.<p>

He'd figured the train was going to turn the opposite direction again and decided to get off right there. He slung his bag over his shoulder and braced himself against the edge of the compartment. The train was flying by at a fatally fast pace.

And then he leaped off.

He sailed through the air and landed on the ground, the unstable momentum causing him to go into a roll. He tumbled a few meters and then stopped due to the friction of the grass beneath him. He sat up and surveyed his surroundings.

He seemed to have landed in the middle of a large town. The train tracks were right over a hill that hid the large community. He squinted into the distance and caught a sign that said: **Ojai Printing Press**, in the centre of houses and shops.

So . . . he was in Ojai. 88 years ago, Ojai hadn't existed at all. It was merely a small coal mine with barely any coal at all. And through those years, it slowly grew into a large town. Now it had a decent population, and its main source of profit wasn't measly coal anymore.

He looked to the sky. The sun was setting, and he didn't have much daylight to spare.

Edward got up and sighed when he spotted all his backpack contents spilled all over the ground. They must have fallen out when he jumped off the train, when he rolled around on the floor. He bent down to pick them up and put them in his bag, but he soon realized his bag wasn't filling up like it's supposed to do.

Where were all the things going?

He looked under his backpack and realized the objects were falling through the bottom. After carefully studying his bag, he found that there was a large tear at the bottom. Huh. Go figure.

After everything his bag had been through, it was surprising it had held up until _now_. Battling the Morrigan and her wolf, losing his bag for a while, and then _this . . ._ It was really a wonder how it managed to stay intact all this time.

Edward felt sheepish for all the abuse his bag had gone through, but a quick fix via alchemy could get the job done right.

He clapped his hands and ran a quick diagnostic over the tear, his hands glowing. With an alchemic array bright in his mind, he began the reconstruction, bright lightning flaring every-way and illuminating the dusk. When he was done, the light faded away and he was once again stuck in the gloom.

The alchemist stood up and stretched. Now he needed a place to sleep. Preferably a tree of some sort. He couldn't simply walk into a store and ask for a place to sleep the night. He still had his dignity to uphold!

Even though sleeping in a tree counted as no dignity.

He was just about to head for one when he heard soft footsteps behind him. The grass rustled. He remained on high alert.

"Don't be like that, now," an old woman's voice rasped through the night air. "I saw you earlier. Looks like you're a bit lost. Not from around these parts, are you?"

Edward turned around, studying the woman. She didn't seem . . . hostile. Suspicious, maybe. Should he trust her? He chose to stay silent.

"I see," she said. "Why don't you come with me? I'll give you a place to stay. It's just a tiny room, but it's better than . . . let's just say, a tree."

Edward froze. "I'm, uh…" he stuttered, looking for the right words. But his English chose that time to fade away and he started to, instead, rant on in German. At least, he hoped it was German. "Ich kann nicht wirklich fragen Sie, dass, wäre es nicht höflich sein. Es ist in Ordnung, ich werde einfach in einen Baum heute Nacht schlafen."

But the woman seemed to have understood him perfectly. "It's fine," she said. "I don't mind it at all. I can't have you catching a cold tonight, can I? It's going to rain, you know."

He furrowed his eyebrows, and then looked up. The night sky was as clear as day—well, night. My point is, there was not a cloud in the sky. _Where is she going with this?_

He wondered if she was crazy.

It struck him then that something was off about this whole situation. The woman was wearing _sunglasses_, in the _evening_. Maybe she was crazy.

The old lady smiled, though. "I don't bite. It's nice if you shared your thoughts with me, instead of keeping them hidden. I know what you're thinking. Trust me, I may look young, but I'm older than you think."

_Really?_ he thought. _Are you flattering yourself? Because you look like an old crone to me_. "Sorry," he muttered in what he hoped to be English. Well, it didn't matter now if it was German or English because the lady seemed to understand both.

"Well, are you coming or not?" the woman asked. "It's really going to rain soon." She held out her arm. "Now come on then, young man. Help this helpless old woman back to her house, would you?"

He knew she was more than capable of doing it herself, but he listened anyway, linking his arm with hers while his other arm supported his backpack. And then they started off while the lady pointed out the various places in town, and the directions to her house.

But all that time she'd been giving him instructions, he was always the one leading. Even though she was supposed to know where her home was, it was like she was incapable of getting there herself without someone else there.

He watched her closely, eyes lingering on her face the longest. The thought of wearing sunglasses in the evening disturbed him. But why, though? What was so strange about wearing sunglasses in the night, other than the fact that there was absolutely no sun in the night? So, what?

…_Oh._

The old woman was _blind_.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Edward will be taking advantage of his language knowledge soon, when he meets more characters in the series. I like to see them go "WTF?" when they see him ranting on about his height in some dead language. I also notice the fact that Ed's story line is significantly longer than Al's or anyone else's really. I don't have a problem with that. Do you? ;)<strong>

**Oh, and, one other thing.**

**MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE LOT OF YOU! (^_^)**

**Edit: Hey, hey, still rewriting. Almost done!**


	9. IX: Getting Used To Things

**Here is the next chapter! I think the story is going along pretty well. You won't see much of Flamel's side of the story, but more like Al's and Ed's story. We know what the twins and Flamel do because it's ****_their_**** story, but we don't know what the Witch of Endor was doing before they came, and if I incorporated that with Ed's story, well, you're just gonna have to read it to see.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF. If I did, I would really bring those two universes together.**

**Enjoy, like always!**

* * *

><p>When they arrived at her home, Edward thought it was a bit odd to have millions of mirrors dangling all around the shop. It would have been less weird if it was a mirror shop, but this place seemed to sell almost anything strange. The reflective trinkets spun on their strings, giving the atmosphere an eerie feel.<p>

"It's dark," he remarked.

"Of course, idiot boy," the old woman said. "It's nighttime outside."

Edward didn't like being called stupid. His childish temper resurfaced and flared with his anger. "I know that! But don't you have any lights in here or anything?"

The woman pulled on what looked to be a string, and a single light bulb lit up the shop. But it was only one, so I wouldn't call the shop _lit_.

Ed's jaw hit the floor. "What? You only have _one_?"

"What do you expect?" the woman said, shrugging. "We are a small town. If you want some light, go get it for yourself."

He clenched his fist, and then he realized he was staying at this woman's place for the night, and that he should treat his host with respect. Of course, it was also the other way around—a host should treat their guests with respect—but she was probably going to deny it.

"By the way," he said, "what's your name?"

There was a pause in the conversation, but it was barely noticeable as the woman quickly replied, "Just call me Dora. Everyone does."

"Oh." He spared a glance at his tattered backpack. His head snapped up and caught the old woman, Dora, staring at one of the mirrors. When he looked at the same mirror, he could see her through it as well.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me?" she said.

He was caught off guard, but quickly gained his composure. He didn't know how the woman knew he wanted to ask her something. It was strange, but what part of his week wasn't? "Is there someplace where I can exchange some antique items for, let's say, modern day money?"

Dora raised her eyebrows streaked with grey. _Modern day money? _"Of course. There's a dealership down the block. They buy all kinds of things from folks. But you know, if it's money you need, you can ask me. I'll take anything you have in exchange."

"But you're already doing enough," Edward said. "I can't just—"

"That's why you're so thickheaded," she said.

Ed's earlier anger returned. "What did you say?"

She ignored him. "I haven't done anything for you _yet_. And a promise is hardly anything. I'll give you a bed for tonight. I'll also supply you with the proper currency—as much as you need."

"But there has to be something to give you in return. It's equivalency," he said.

Dora seemed to consider it for a second, her head tilted to the side, unseeing eyes calculating. "All right," she finally said. "What do you propose? You already helped me home earlier; what else can you do for me?"

"I don't know," Ed said, scowling. "Don't play dumb; I know you could've gone home by yourself, _without _my help. So what? You tell me. What do you want me to do for you?"

Dora smiled, skin crinkling at the edges. "What makes you think that I want you to do something for me?"

"Look, lady, I've had a weird day," Ed said, rubbing the back of his head. "All I want now is a decent bed to sleep in, and some money to supply the rest of my . . . trip. And in exchange, you would want something, wouldn't you?"

"Idiot boy," she sighed.

"I have a name, you know. It's Ed."

"Idiot Ed . . . "

He gritted his teeth. "Say that again. I _dare _you."

As usual, Dora ignored him. "All right, if you insist on helping me, I'll give you a job to do. In exchange for the shelter, money, and food, you will run a few errands for me."

"Wait, I never said—"

"It won't be too hard," she continued. "Help me with the shop, and send some things to customers for me, and I'll let you stay here for awhile."

"Hold on—" he tried again, but to no avail.

"You're lucky I found you. Others won't be so kind to outsiders. Believe me; you won't be comfortable sleeping in a tree tonight. Look outside," Dora said, "it's raining." She pointed out a shabby window, and Edward caught sight of raindrops hitting the glass.

He was put off, wondering how in the world she could've known. He almost forgot he had a pressing matter to address. "Hold on a sec. I never asked you for food. That I could manage myself. And I only just met you. Why do you insist—?"

"Because you're important, Edward," she said in a quiet tone. So quiet, he almost missed what she said.

"Wait. How do you know my name? I only told you my—"

"You have to learn to keep quiet, idiot boy. When your elders are talking, you need to muster up the patience to let them finish their sentence. If not, you can really miss the important things, the things that matter. Remember that, boy."

Edward growled deep in his throat, crossing his arms and turning away. "Why do you always have to cut me off when I—?"

"Because you go off the point," she said, staring at him. But she was blind, so he couldn't really tell. If she had her sight, though, he knew they would've pierced his soul. "And because it's fun."

"Hypocrite," he muttered. "What if I said something important, huh? If I was going to, and you cut me off, you'd be missing something too. And don't say it's because I'm off topic, because otherwise, you'd be too."

Dora smiled. "And that's why you're an important piece of the puzzle. Everything's finally coming together."

This woman was definitely strange, he decided, narrowing his eyes at her. She spoke to him as if she knew him for a long time, but he'd only met her just a while ago. What the hell was going on? What's with this time period? Was everyone insane, or was it just . . . ?

"Are you all right?"

The woman's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He blinked several times, his throat gone dry. "P-pardon?"

She looked at him with concern. "You seem rather pale. You blanked out for a while there. I didn't think my joke affected you that badly."

He stared at her, and then rubbed his eyes. "Ugh, yeah. No. It wasn't your joke—though I have to admit it was pretty terrible—it was something else. Sorry about that. It's . . . It's actually happening a lot these days."

"Oh?" Dora peered at him curiously behind her sunglasses. "You blank out about what?" And then she watched as he did it again. His abnormal golden eyes clouded, his jaw tense, gloved hands clenched tightly. She placed a cool hand on his arm.

There was a moment where Edward's body shuddered. In a split second, his eyes became its usual sharpness. His head snapped towards her. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Come. Let me show you to your room."

Ed let her lead the way. He found it interesting that she could walk by herself with her handicap and all, when just before she made him help her get back to her store. All around hung mirrors and they turned this way and that whenever a body passed by.

He followed her to a room in the back that led to a hallway. They passed a couple of rooms, and as Edward peered into one of them, something caught his attention. His stride faltered, and he stuck his head into the room.

Of course, like the rest of the store, mirrors hung everywhere. But there was another mirror in there, one that was much bigger than the rest. It wasn't particularly special—it looked the same, but something about it was peculiar.

And then the mirror surface rippled.

"What?" he said, going towards it to take a closer look. He was just about to lay his hand on the smooth surface, when Dora's voice pulled him back.

"Edward?" He momentarily flinched. "Where have you gone, you idiot boy? Don't you know it's impolite to leave your host? Come back this instant!"

"Shit," he hissed, stepping away from the mirror and heading back into the hall. He looked around for Dora's frail form, and saw her entering a room at the back. He started towards her. _I don't know,_ he thought. _Something about that mirror seemed . . . familiar._

Once he reached her, he saw her standing beside a small desk in an equally small room. There was a bed set in the corner, and a small wardrobe was placed in front of it. Edward supposed it was rather . . . charming, if he had to be polite.

"It's nothing much," Dora admitted, "but it will have to do." She turned around. "I'll leave things to you then, Edward. Get settled in."

She was about to leave, but he stopped her. "Wait," he said. Her footsteps ceased. He felt her standing right by the door. Without turning around, he continued, "Can I ask you a question?"

He heard a sigh. "I don't know—_can_ you?"

"May I ask you a question?"

"You just did. Twice."

He tried suppressing his anger. That was something he had to control. It was getting better now, but it still needed some work. At least she wasn't calling him . . . _that word_. Hell, the woman was shorter than him. Oh, just said it.

"Why?" he asked. "Why are you doing this? I never asked you of it."

"Oh Edward," she said, suddenly sounding very old, and very weary. "It's because you're important." And then she left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

Edward flung his backpack onto the bed. It creaked with the weight, but the backpack didn't weigh much, so that meant the bed was close to falling apart. Edward clapped his hands together and placed them onto the bed rails, strengthening them with alchemy. Once the process was finished, he plopped onto the mattress.

He looked around. Well, it wasn't as if he had anything to settle _into_.

* * *

><p>"How is he so far?" Joan of Arc asked her fiancé as she passed a wet cloth to him.<p>

The Comte de Saint-Germain took the towel gratefully and placed it on Alphonse's pale forehead. He then pulled up another stool and gestured for Joan to sit. They both watched as the youngest Elric slept, his chest rising and lowering at regular intervals.

"He's gotten better," Francis said. "He should have woken up a while ago, but he seems really out of it. I wonder what he's been doing for the past few days . . . "

"Probably searching for Edward," Joan said. She laid her hand on Alphonse's cheek. "The poor child."

Francis recalled back to the moment Alphonse had stepped through the Paris Leygate. He looked much disorientated, if his funny footwork meant anything. They'd caught him as he stumbled, and he had fallen into unconsciousness immediately afterward. They removed him from the roof and set him on a coach a floor lower.

Now he was sleeping, looking very much like a 13-year-old should.

"It's probably his first time travelling through a Leygate," Saint-Germain noted.

"Maybe we shouldn't have placed the Leygate on the roof," Joan said. "Especially when it's so high up."

"I'd really rather not put it underground, and seeing as our headquarters is stationed in a church, we can't risk placing it on ground level," Francis said, distracted. "But that's beside the point. If it really was his first time travelling through a Leygate, then the place where you put the Leygate shouldn't matter. The main factor is how his body is built." He wrapped his finger around his chin. "It's strange, though . . . "

Joan watched Francis uneasily. "What is?"

For a second there, the count was thinking intently, but then he snapped out of his musings with a sigh. "Well, I guess it can't be helped. I don't really know why he lost consciousness, probably due to fatigue, but it shouldn't happen that severely. There's a first for everything."

"I suppose," Joan said.

On the couch, Alphonse stirred. Francis and Joan turned their attentions on him. The boy was still pale and sweaty, but he had opened his eyes. He groaned and tried to sit up, but Saint-Germain pushed him back down.

He shook his head. "No. You should rest for a bit."

"How are you feeling?" Joan asked.

Alphonse rubbed his eyes. The two grown-ups were speaking to him in English, but he replied back to them in German, "I have a killer headache."

"I'll grab you some water," the Frenchwoman said in the same language, heading what looked to be downstairs.

"Where are we?" Alphonse asked Francis.

"Notre Dame," the man replied.

Alphonse's jaw dropped.

"Wh—?"

"When you say Notre Dame," he continued, interrupting the count, "do you mean _the_ Notre Dame?"

"Well, yeah…"

"You build your Stronghold in the most ancient church in Paris?"

Saint-Germain rubbed his neck sheepishly. "It technically wasn't our idea, mostly . . . It was your father's. Because if Dee were to look for the Stronghold, he would never think of looking here. What sane person would put an underground network resistance in a church that looks ready to collapse? And this place isn't even underground! Dee would never look here."

"But still," Al said, "what if it does collapse?"

The count shrugged. "We reinforced the upper floors. It should hold."

Al was almost afraid to say it. ". . . What's underneath us?"

"Why, we have several more rooms like this." He gestured around the place. "Underneath all that is the actual church. Do you know why the roof of this church is higher than the ceiling inside?"

"To hold the bell?" Alphonse guessed.

"Well, yes," the count admitted. "Due to the instability of this monument, no one is allowed to go upstairs. Before we built this place, a floor overlooking the entire city was already built here. Have you heard the story 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'?"

The boy nodded.

"The hunchback lived up here, where he could ring the bell when called for. This area is what the room we put the Leygate in became."

A spark lit up in Al's brain. "So you _didn't_ put it on the roof!"

"Technically, we did, because the roof didn't have a roof to cover it to begin with, so we called it the roof. But no, I suppose it isn't on the roof in layman's terms. If we placed it on the actual roof, everyone would see, even though it's currently disguised as a church window."

Alphonse blinked, wondering what the man was referring to. And then he realized the church window was one of those multicolored works of abstract art that replaced the regular clear windows. It was certainly beautiful and well camouflaged if its designated area was indeed a church.

"And only one side of it looks like that," Saint-Germain added.

"So you mean if you were to put it up like a real window, the person travelling through it would . . ."

". . . fall to their death, yes," Francis confirmed, nodding.

Alphonse sweat-dropped. "Actually, I was going to say 'would be seen', but your way works too."

The count smiled.

Just then, Joan of Arc came rushing in with a cup of water. She handed it to Alphonse, who drank the water gratefully. When he finished, he lowered the glass and thanked her. Joan sat back down on her stool beside Saint-Germain.

"So what were you two discussing?" she asked.

"Just how this Stronghold works in general," the count answered.

"Are you two getting married here?" Alphonse asked out of the blue, startling the two adults.

Joan nearly jumped out of her seat. "_Excusez-moi,_ Alphonse?" she said, reverting back to French due to her shock.

Al simply blinked his hazel eyes. "I don't know. It seems kind of weird, having a headquarters in a church if it served no other purpose than a good view."

"It's to hide from Dee too!" Francis insisted.

"Right," the boy continued, "perhaps you got set up here on purpose? Any fool could tell you two are in love, even a person like me. And I've just only met you. By the way, a very nice choice, picking Notre Dame to get married in."

"Excuse me," Joan said, "we admit nothing of the sort."

"But you don't deny it," he said, gesturing with his empty glass. "Am I right?"

"Just like your brother," the Frenchwoman said, shaking her head, "I can never get enough of him. But I have to admit, you're more subtle in your accusations than he is."

"So I am right."

"I never said—"

Saint-Germain narrowed his eyes. "Alphonse."

Joan stopped her sentence and looked at Al expectantly.

"What is it?" the boy asked.

"How old . . . are you?"

Alphonse bit his lip, wondering whether or not he should tell the truth. That reminded him of his objective: to find Edward. He didn't have time to be unconscious or involved in pointless banter. But . . . if the adults knew how old he actually was, they'd trust him more. Right?

"Something happened once," he started slowly. "It's really complicated, so I won't go into the details—I prefer not speaking of it if I could. But somehow, I ended up as a 17-year-old trapped in a 13-year-old's body."

The two French people were skeptical. "Really."

"I told you it was complicated," Alphonse sighed. "But yeah. It's the truth. I'm only a year younger than Edward in real time."

"Well, compared to him, you do look like you're a year younger," Francis said. "But how can you be four years older than you actually are?"

Alphonse made a sound like he was kissing his teeth. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

The count looked about to say more, but Joan interrupted him, expression dead serious. "We should get back to the matter at hand," she said.

"Yeah," the youngest Elric agreed. "We have to find Brother, and quickly."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Saint-Germain said. "We don't even know where he is."

"The last time I saw him," Alphonse said, "was when he was going out to sea in the Gulf of Mexico. I found a book at the hotel that was different from all the others we've read. Thing is, it was marked on a chapter involving the Lost City of Atlantis."

Both Saint-Germain and Joan tensed.

"What?" Alphonse said. "Is that important?"

Joan gestured for him to continue. "We'll explain later," she said. "We'll hear what you have to say first."

He nodded. "The Lost City of Atlantis is thought to be located right off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. On the bookmark, however, Edward wrote the words: Danu Talis, 10,000, and Nick Fleming."

"You know who Nick Fleming is," the count said, checking off his mental list. "Well, Danu Talis is another name for Atlantis, in the Elders' language. The number 10,000 has to refer to the time when Danu Talis was destroyed. It's really no wonder why Ed went there, now, is there? Because you now know he's been associated with us."

"Yeah," Al said.

"But what I don't get," Joan said, "is _why_ he went out to sea in the first place. It's not like he's going to find anything there. It's been 10,000 years. Everything—the rocks, glyphs, buildings—are long gone."

"That may be, but . . ." The boy trailed off. He knew Ed had gone for the transmutation circle there, but even still, it's been that long. There was almost a zero probability that it would still exist. And that adds to the mystery on why Ed suddenly disappeared.

"Edward wouldn't do that," Joan continued. "He wouldn't leave behind people he cares about on purpose. Something terrible happened to him that night."

"Maybe he drowned?" Francis offered.

A glare from both his soon-to-be-wife and a certain Elric shut him up.

"There's no hope," Alphonse said miserably. "He's gone. Edward's gone."

* * *

><p>Edward sneezed.<p>

Dora raised her head, spoon hovering near her open mouth. She tilted her head to the side, sensing distress. "Is everything all right, idiot boy?"

Said idiot boy rubbed his nose. "Yeah," he said. "I don't know—someone's talking about me."

"Hopefully about a good thing," the old woman said, finishing the rest of her food. "After you're done your dinner, could you sweep up the shop for me?" Without hearing Edward's consent, she got up from her seat. "Thank you. I'll be at the back of you need me."

She was up and gone before he could realize what she did.

"I'm only here for two hours and she's already messing with me," he said, shoving food into his mouth. _Real_ food, mind you, not that gooey green crap he was forced to eat a few hours ago. "Sheesh."

A few minutes later, he was done his meal and cleaned up his dishes at the sink. Then he headed to the front of the shop and picked up the dusty broom in the corner. It was covered with cobwebs, just about the condition of everywhere else in the shop. He guessed the broom was just as old as the dust in this place.

Looking around for anybody watching, he clapped his hands together and fixed up the broom. As the alchemic reaction died away, he began sweeping and rearranging everything to make the store more spacious.

He righted empty picture frames and hung up the mirrors. He swept away the broken glass pieces and wiped away the dust. He polished the furniture and righted the pots of flowers. And then he put the broom down, heading out to get more light bulbs.

He wasn't a great technician, but the broken light bulbs just need to be replaced. That way, the shop wouldn't have to depend on only just one.

Such was the way of Equivalent Exchange.

First, he decided to head for the pawn shop down the street to exchange his old money with the new currency. He figured the guys working there would like a bunch of ten thousand or so bills of the early 20th century. It was still raining heavily, so he ended up running there.

The door dinged as he entered the store.

"How can I help you?" the burly man behind the cash register asked. His name tag said 'Toby'.

"Uh…" He rummaged for his money, the funding the university sent him every month—well, not anymore. He found them in his coat pocket and pulled them out. He threw the five packets at the man, searching for more. "Give me a sec. I think I hid them in my other pockets . . . Just need to find them."

"W-wha…?" the man stuttered, wondering who this guy was. He picked up the packets of bills, eyeing them closely.

"Oh, they're authentic," Edward told him, still searching for the money, face screwed up in concentration. "Hold on . . . Ah!" He held up two more packets. "Found 'em! Here you go!" He slapped them against the other man's face.

"S-sir," the cash register said. "What are you . . . ?"

"Can I exchange those for the proper currency?" Edward interrupted. "I'm in a hurry."

"This is a pawn shop, sir," the man said. "If you need a currency exchange, you have to talk to a b-banker, not me."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Didn't you hear what I said?" The man cowered under his glare. "I said I was in a hurry!"

"I'm sorry!" the man cried. "P-please don't hurt me."

"Oh for Truth's sake," Ed mumbled. He bunched all the bills together, and held them out to the man. "This is 20th century currency. The bank will not accept this. That's why I came here, dumbass. Maybe if you do your job right, you'd realize that."

The man stared. "…S-So you're not going to hurt me?"

"Believe me," Edward said with a smile, "we're getting there."

The cashier shakily accepted the bills. "I'll go talk with the boss man. I'll be right back with you." The man ran off without a backwards glance.

Ed sighed and leaned against the counter, playing with a keychain. "Maybe I was a little too strong on him?" he murmured. He didn't really know how the 21st century worked. Or maybe that man was just a wimp. Probably the latter.

Awhile later, the cashier finally came back with another guy behind him. Edward guessed he was the one who owned the shop. His shirt read 'Joe'.

Joe held up the 20th century money to his face. "This yours?"

Edward propped his elbow up on the counter and leaned into his hand. "Yep."

Joe didn't seem to be particularly scary, but he certainly had the muscle tone to be a hard-core biker. But his eyes were kind and he had wrinkled behind his eyes that suggested he spent his whole life smiling. And here he was now, smiling, not even aware his employee was shaking like a Chihuahua.

"Well, it all seems to be real."

"Yep," the alchemist agreed. "All genuine and what-not."

"I'll accept it and provide you with the proper amount in exchange," Joe said. "Would you like a bag to carry all of it in?"

"Why?" Ed said. "Do I need a bag?"

The man just smiled. "You don't know how much early 20th century currency is worth nowadays, do you? Nearly all of the authentic bills are gone, and the coins are even rarer. Man, you've got yourself a good deal here. You're going to need a bag, all right. You're going to be carrying 60 grand home with you."

"Sixty?" Edward said. "I only have about a ten thousand worth, here."

"That's the currency of _these_ bills," Joe said, holding up Edward's money. "But prices have dropped, so they're worth a lot more than they are. Can I ask you a question, kid?"

"You just did."

"How did you get all of this?" he asked.

Edward shrugged. "It's from a relative from long ago. I'm going to see if his bank account is still open. I'll store the access money there."

"Good idea, kid. You don't want to be robbed."

"Not like anybody can rob me," Ed said, shooting a glance at the very quiet cashier who was currently hiding behind his boss. Now he was completely gone.

"Why're you carrying so many on you?" Joe said. "It's dangerous, especially when you say you have a bank account. Why not store the money there?"

Ed sighed. "Trust me, big guy; it's hard with the condition I'm in. I travel around a lot, and with the . . . situations I get into, I can't find the time to run to the bank." _Usually, I'm too busy running (away) to get to the bank._

"Yeah, all right," said Joe, reaching under the counter and taking out some bills. He began counting them at a really fast pace until he had about twenty five packets sitting on the table. "Yo," he ordered the cashier, "get a bag for me, will ya?"

Toby ran off to fulfill the request.

Edward watched him go. "You should really get a new person for the job."

"Yeah," Joe said. "But he's my kid. He's gotta take over the business when I'm gone."

"That's your son?" Ed asked. Now that he mentioned it, the two did look alike appearance-wise. Maybe they were related. "He's not like you, is he?"

Joe shrugged. "You gotta work with what you have."

The alchemist nodded. "That's true."

Then Toby came back with a black duffle bag. He began piling all the money in it. After he was done, he zipped up the bag and gave it to Edward. He then stored the 20th century currency into a brown box, giving it to his father.

"You have a good day," he said.

"Sure," Ed said, nodding in his direction.

"What are ya gonna do with that?" Joe asked. "Buy a yacht or go to the Bahamas?"

Edward just grimaced. "Eh, it's not really my style."

The blond then left the shop.

Outside, it was pitch dark except for the lights illuminating the street. Not many people were out, but some of the stores were still open. Edward found the idea of 'Open 24/7!' as too good to be true. He found a hardware store and entered, looking to see if they sold light bulbs.

He walked down the aisles and looked carefully at the shelves. He found the light bulbs at the very back, and he chose to get the fluorescent ones, because they would last longer. Dora wasn't going to have him around forever, so he decided to buy her extras for when she needed them.

He headed back up front to pay. The woman there greeted him. He handed her the items and the appropriate currency (but it took him a while because he had trouble counting the amount). He put back all the extra money (which turned out to be a lot) into his duffle bag. He zipped it closed, but not before the cashier saw.

Her jaw was a gaping mess. But she quickly closed it, clearing her throat, going back into professional mode. Not that there was anything particularly professional about a cashier's job. "Three boxes of fluorescent light bulbs." She pressed a button and the registered buzzed to the life. She tore Edward's receipt from the machine and handed it to him. "Will that be all?"

He took the receipt, staring dumbly at the cash register. He'd seen a machine before, but this was totally more complicated than the ones he'd encountered! They had registers in his other world, but none so advanced as this. A lot had happened in 88 years. And he knew a cash register was one of the many he would see.

Edward was still having trouble comprehending a contraption that could calculate one's total price and write it all down on a slip of paper. The cashier seemed to have noticed his silence, and tapped his arm.

"Sir?" she said.

"Uh, what?" Ed said intelligently. He seemed to have remembered where he was. "Oh, yeah. Yes, that's all, thanks."

But he was still staring at the register.

"Sir," the woman persisted. "Can I help you?"

"Well, uh," he began, and pointed at the cash register. "How does this work?"

He knew how the registers in his world worked, but they looked a little bit different, and he wanted to know. The woman looked taken aback by his request; she didn't seem to see it coming. Then her expression changed to confusion, like: _Why is this guy asking me this question? How should I know?_

"Ah, sorry," he said, grinning like an idiot, "I did it again. That's the problem with scientists. Well, see you later!"

After stepping out of the store and leaving the woman utterly stupefied, he decided to head back to Dora's place. With his duffle bag and light bulbs at hand, he set off. He stood outside on the street for a while, walking around in random circles, before he realized he was lost. And it was still raining.

"Goddammit."

* * *

><p><strong>Ooh, something is going to go down... BTW, Happy New Year my dear readers! It's going to be a great year! I hope you all have your new year resolutions... I know I do. <strong>

**Thanks for sticking with me and providing me with the reviews and faves!**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR! :D**


	10. X: The Value Of A Life

**Well, here's the next chapter. God, 1st term is almost over so the teachers have been piling so much work on us. But it's a long weekend, so I can really relax. I hope you enjoy this chapter. There's a fight in there somewhere, but it's short and not the magical kind. Please be patient. It's coming up, I assure you.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA and/or SINF.**

**Now. Go on. Read it to its full glory.**

* * *

><p>There was nothing worse than getting lost in the middle of the night while trapped outside in a freaking rainstorm.<p>

Edward Elric lived for the worst.

He was too prideful sometimes, but he knew when to ask for help. Right now, he needed help, and was even given a chance for one by a certain blind shopkeeper—albeit a slightly insane one. But there was one problem.

How was he supposed to ask Dora for help when he didn't know where she was?

Maybe he should have paid more attention to her directions when he was leading her home. But then, he was too busy thinking about why she chose to wear sunglasses in the evening. Sunglasses, of all things! This world was turning his IQ to mush.

For now, his best chance was to walk around aimlessly until he found a familiar landmark or a shelter. Most of the stores were already closing, though, and it wasn't like they were going to let a soaking wet stranger stand in their store, getting the floors wet in the process.

Edward zipped open his black duffle bag containing the money and put the boxes of light bulbs inside. God, all that trouble for some light bulbs.

He then shielded the bag from the rain by putting it under his coat. That way, everything else was kept dry and he didn't have to walk around looking like a robber. It was amusing to think of him as one, but it as also less amusing if someone caught him at it.

He shook his head, smiling to himself. Cold water dripped from his bangs, his clothes sticking to his skin like wet, cold adhesive. His overcoat made the absorbency rate much faster. There was a way to fix it, but he had to find somewhere to stay dry first.

And besides, he needed to get to the bank, so why not the bank?

Walking down the street and turning a corner, he was a block in before he spotted the bank. It wasn't a too fancy building, but it was certainly bigger than the rest with white-washed walls and a revolving door.

A revolving door! That kind of thing fascinated Ed to no end. He'd seen automatic doors and a normal door, but he hadn't seen revolving doors yet. He praised humans for their creativity. Maybe he'll take a trip to the library later to see what else scientists have accomplished in 88 years.

And just when he thought that, images flashed through his mind, forcing him to lean against a nearby wall for support

The picture of a cash register spun into his vision. The image zoomed in on the machine and then _into_ it, giving Ed a glance of all the machinery and complications that went into making sure the cash register work properly. As fast as the image came, it went, and then was replaced by another.

Now he was seeing a flat device that folded up, its top part flickering on to reveal a bright and vivid screen. The other half had square buttons on it, white letters and numbers printed on each individual square. The scene changed again.

He was looking at a boat, but not just any boat. It was a very large one, a cruiser, it was called. It could hold up to 5000 people. The scene changed to a car, but it was more sophisticated looking with a lot more options and buttons. Its outer coat gleamed with a metallic sheen. It was new and completely spotless.

Each image changed whenever new information was added to his head. Edward wondered why it chose _now_ to give him all this knowledge; he didn't see any good from it, other than an amusing topic to talk about to pass the time.

But he supposed it would come in handy. Like, make him sound more modern instead of 1920's olden-style. Yet these were simply machines and electronics, nothing special. Still, now that he knew all these things, he felt regretful that he couldn't find out on his own.

After the info process was finished, Ed noted that this time, the pain was tolerable and not so high. The entire process took less than ten seconds in real-time. It was easy to just push off the wall and keep walking.

Edward eventually reached the bank, standing under the stone roof and shaking off all the water. He brought his hands together and transmuted himself dry, and then he made the move to enter the building.

Inside, he ended up looking around to see where to go. This town was pretty big now, but it was in no means as populated as San Francisco, or even that rich. The bank consisted of a waiting area and a small booth where a single banker worked. The other spaces were occupied by the ATM machines, and the public bathroom.

"Not much is it," he said to himself, heading for the banker. Honestly, he expected something a bit . . . what was the word—extravagant? Even before the war ravaged the country, the banks of the 1920's were fancier than this, with felt carpeting and brass decoration.

The lady at the desk looked up from signing some paperwork. "Good evening, sir. How may I help you?"

Edward reached inside his coat and brought out the black duffle bag. His head darted from side to side before setting the bag onto the desk. He shoved his hands into his pockets. Overall, he looked like a very shifty person. His strange appearance didn't help any, with that eye colour, and long hair even though he was plainly male.

But that was only in the banker's prospective.

Edward wondered what happened to her. She was staring at him as if she saw a ghost. He blinked. "Hello? Miss? Are you okay?" He waved a hand in front of her face.

No response.

"I should have bought contacts," he said to the side. "And dyed my hair. Well, too late now." He had no idea _how_ he knew they were called contacts, but he guessed it had something to do with Truth's strange knowledge exchange with him.

Again, he tried to get the banker's attention. But all she did was yell "ROBBER!"

Edward did his hardest to calm her down. "Look," he said, yelling, "I am not a robber! If I was one, do you think I'd be that stupid to come _here_ of all places to stash the money? Come on, lady, think about it. I realize how the media make people seem like they're idiots, but that's not true."

The banker did look visibly calmer. "You . . . You're not a robber?"

"Of course not!" he said, exasperated. He sighed. "Now could you please take the money and put it into Van Hohenheim's account?"

He didn't know if the account was still open, since Hohenheim was dead, and that had been 88 years ago. Of course, he'd given it to his eldest son, and since there was no record of Edward dying, it _should _still be there.

The banker typed something into her computer. Her eyes scanned the screen, and then looked back at him. "Yes, everything seems to be valid." Edward let out a breath. "I'll just take the money. Do you want it all deposited?"

"I'll keep ten grand with me," Edward said. "Oh, and I'll need the bag," he added.

The banker nodded, and then made off with his bag. A few minutes later, she came back and handed the duffle bag to him. "Everything seems to be in order. Ten thousand is in that bag, and uh . . . I wasn't sure if you wanted the light bulbs deposited, so I just left it in there."

"Oh." He'd forgotten he had light bulbs with the money. "Oops."

"No problem, sir. Will that be all?"

"Yeah," he said. "You have a good night."

"You too, sir."

Edward left the building and into the rain again. It was pouring more fiercely than ever. If only he had brought an umbrella with him! There were a couple by the door, and he didn't even grab one. Dora would have let him. Right? He was pretty sure.

…Nah. She'd something like, "No, idiot boy. You must withstand the rain on your own, without any help or shelter. That's the only way you're going to get through life. You have to carry your problems and deal with it yourself, not have others help you."

He didn't know how shouldering the problems of your life related to rain, but the woman was crazy. He'd let it slide for now.

Maybe he could find a computer somewhere and search Dora's place up on Google Maps. Wait, he didn't know her address.

"The 21st century is weird. They have such ridiculous names for a map app," Edward said, walking off. "And to think a few minutes ago, I would have never known any of these things at all . . . They can't help me in my situation. Tch. Useless."

As he made his way down the street, he passed by a restaurant that offered Internet service, but he knew that would be useless since he didn't have a laptop or computer to begin with. He could get one at that moment with all the money he had, but he would get himself more lost.

He squinted into the distance, trying to see the street name on the traffic lights. He couldn't see much past the pouring rain, even though he knew he should have. He narrowed his eyes.

"Maybe I'm finally going blind," he said.

Alphonse had mentioned once or twice that his eyesight had been declining—probably due to all that reading in the dark—but he didn't want to believe his younger brother. Plus, he didn't have the time to get some glasses and put them on. Better yet, with all the fights and battles he's been in, the glasses would shatter two minutes in.

He should get contacts after all. But they must have been uncomfortable to wear. It's not a bad idea, though; it could conceal his eye colour as well. He'd decide that later. For now—

"Where am I?" he wondered, heading into some kind of alley and appearing at the other side.

Apparently, this alley led to another alley.

"Who plotted this town?"

He was almost at the other side when he realized it was a dead end. (Yes, he really needs those contacts. He couldn't even see the obvious brick wall in front of him. Believe me; the rain makes his eyesight much worse than it is. It's milder in the daytime.)

Edward was just in the middle of turning around and heading back before he heard the distinctive sound of shuffling and footsteps breaking the gravel underneath. It was getting closer and closer. He turned around slowly…

…and spotted half a dozen figures in hoods approaching him.

Maybe he could ask them for directions.

They were almost on to him now. Better get straight to the point.

"Hey, guys," he called out. "I'm wondering if you could tell me where Dora's store is. You know Dora, right? It's a pretty small town; you should know her. Hey, uh . . ." He trailed off, seeing one of them taking out a shiny metal instrument.

It was a switchblade.

"Oh . . ." _They're not going to help me._

Those hooded figures took another step closer.

"Never mind," he said, suddenly feeling something very bad about this situation, "I have to run. Later!"

He tried shoving past one of them, but was blocked. Edward backed up a few steps, his back almost hitting the brick wall behind him. His light-hearted, naïve demeanor drained away to reveal his more serious yet reckless persona.

These guys had a killing intent. They weren't going to let him go unscathed. Whoever they were, they weren't peaceful passersby.

It was time he stopped treating this like a game. All his military experience came rushing back to him, everything he had gone through whilst being in his old world. Two years ago, he was Major Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, the same one that did things in his own way, to never follow proper orders.

A hooded man in the very front stepped forward. He was the same one holding the knife. He spoke, voice low, "Yeah, we know Dora. But you've got no business on our home turf. What are you doing here, kid?"

"I'm trying to find her," Edward replied cautiously.

There was a bark of laughter from the back.

"Kid," the first hooded man said, "we ain't gonna let you go so easily, now that you're here. No one's going to help you. You do realize what this place is, right?"

Edward stayed silent.

Good choice.

"Whatever," hooded guy said. "We'll deal with you properly."

"What are you guys—robbers?" Edward asked.

More laughter.

"Kid, what are you—from the 20th Century?" _Well, actually . . ._ "No. We just a bunch of members from the local gang nearby. This is our headquarters you just trespassed upon. You're gonna pay for that.

_Gang?_ the alchemist thought. _What's a gang? Is it some kind of mafia variation?_

Were they a religious group or something?

"Well, kid, you look like you've got a good pound of cash there. Mind if we . . . take a look? You don't mind, do you?"

"I mind," he replied without thinking.

Bad choice. Probably one that was going to get him killed.

"Oh do you?" the first hooded guy said. "Well, then we're gonna have to force that from you, won't we, boys? We don't particularly like the rich folk. They think they can steal everything from us."

The other hooded figures nodded their heads and shouted some sadistic agreements. Then they each took out their respective weapons. Most of them were knives. One carried a set of tonfas. One of them had a gun. The gun he had to worry about.

Edward knew that a fight was about to go down. And it wasn't going to be pretty.

"Just one question," he said.

"So you want some last words?" first hooded man asked. "Sure, we'll give you it."

"Are you a religious group?"

The hooded figures looked at each other. Edward imagined them each having their own versions of a confused face. Then they all seemed to reach a decision simultaneously. First hooded guy nodded.

"Yeah, I guess you can say that. But those are a strange choice of last wor—"

"Good," Edward interrupted him, dropping his black bag on the wet alley floor, "I never liked religious groups."

Those gang members never saw it coming.

The blond kid came forward so fast; none of them reacted fast enough. In a second, half the guys were taken out. No one knew how someone could move so fast. No human could move so fast. The kid was doing some kind of complicated martial arts.

At one moment, he was nailing someone in the stomach with his fist, and then without faltering, he would swing around and kick someone else in the face. Not even three seconds later, more than half the gang was on the ground, rolling around in pain.

Edward rounded on the last few people. He cracked his knuckles for effect.

"It was never going to be pretty," he said. "At least, for you."

One of the last few conscious gang members was the one who had the gun. He shakily pointed the firearm and let loose the round, the loud, ear-shattering bang echoing through the air. The gun dropped from his hand.

The kid in front of them did not sway. Instead, he clutched his right arm, studying the wound that was not there.

"You are even worse a shot than that Eckhart woman . . ." they heard him mutter.

And then the blond looked up again.

"You should have been dead!" the guy who'd shot him hissed.

Edward started forward, and the gang members took a few steps backwards. But soon, they their backs hit the alley wall.

"Unlike you, I don't kill just because somebody _trespassed_ on my headquarters," Edward spat mockingly. He was standing directly in front of them, his right fist raised. "And do you know why I'm not dead?"

The last thing any of them saw was the hard glint of shiny metal.

In the distance, they heard footsteps and a faint, "Prosthetics, assholes. Think about it."

It wouldn't matter in the end anyway, Edward decided, looking at all the prone bodies on the ground. The rain would wash away any trace of what happened, and the so-called 'gang' wouldn't remember a single thing.

He picked up the black duffle bag and walked back down the alley, stopping along the way to transmute the gang members' weapons into liquid metal. Then he continued on, hands in his coats pockets.

"Wait."

Edward turned around.

One of the hooded men was still conscious, his broken body propped up against a wall.

"You talking to me?" Ed asked.

Instead, the man just waved him over. Edward did just that and crouched down beside him. He waited patiently for the man's words.

"Why?" the hooded figure asked. Edward recognized his gruff voice as the first hooded man that spoke with him earlier.

"Why what?" he said, giving a shrug.

". . . Why did you leave us alive?"

"_Alive_? You're kidding, right?" Edward shrugged again. "I don't know. You tell me. What does killing someone benefit you? Does it make you feel good?"

The hooded figure was silent.

"You see," Ed began, "I don't believe in killing. I think it's just overrated and too dramatic. Listen. If you want to get ahead and life and feel good about yourself and the things you do, I suggest you go to school, graduate, and get a job."

"Is . . . Is that what you did?"

"Hell no," Edward said. "I dropped out in elementary school."

There was a gagging sound from the hooded man.

The alchemist smiled. "I left you all alive because you could do so much better. That's all."

The man nodded. Then he reached up and took down his hood. Edward saw a mop of blond hair and startling blue eyes. But the thing was, the man turned out to be a boy no older than 17. Edward felt a pang of sadness. Someone as young as that to join something so corrupted and bizarre . . .

He shook his head. "I guess I should go now. Take a word of advice from a fellow stupid idiot . . . Leave whatever gang thing-a-ma-jiggy you're in and lead a proper, healthy life. Don't go off finding trouble and fighting people you shouldn't fight. It'll only get you trapped and without help from your loved ones."

"Is that true?" the boy asked.

Edward scratched his head. "Yyy . . . yes," he managed to get out. "Just take my word for it."

"Mm'kay. Thanks for the advice," the boy replied weakly. It was funny to think that here he was—after four years of being involved in a gang, he was being told off by a guy who called the gang a, and I quote, 'thing-a-ma-jiggy'.

The taller blond stood up and waved. "Well, see ya. Let's hope we don't meet again."

"Sure . . ." the boy on the ground began to say, and then he caught himself. "Wait!" he called to the other blond.

Edward turned.

"What's . . . What's your name?"

The Amestrian considered answering that question, but seeing as it couldn't hurt, he agreed. "It's Ed."

"Ed? That's it?"

"Well, it's actually Edward, but calling me that makes you sound like either my superior or a very pissed off arch-enemy. So yeah. Just call me Ed."

_This is a strange kid,_ the previous shrouded figure thought to himself. _It doesn't look older than me by much, and yet it sounds as if he's gone through far worse . . ._

"Is that all?"

"What's that?"

Ed blinked. "I said: Is that all you wanted me to say?"

"Well . . ." Cue uncharacteristic sheepishness. "Earlier, you said you wanted to see Dora. I know her. We go to her for supplies all the time. She thinks we're good kids. But anyway, she lived near the intersection of Marryat Blvd. and Trench Street. You should hurry. She gets worried easily."

Edward tilted his head to the side. "Why are you telling me this?"

The other boy shrugged. "Because you beat us. I tell you what you want to know if you beat us. That's how it works in the gang."

"Your religious group is rather messed up," Edward said.

"Yeah. I guess."

"But you didn't tell me your name."

The boy looked up. "What?"

"If I told you my name, you need to tell me yours."

"O-oh. It's Jack."

Edward nodded. "Nice to meet you, Jack. See you later.

"Bye, Ed," Jack said. "I suppose everything is fair, now, huh?"

"Fair?" Edward said to himself. He smiled knowingly. "Yes. I suppose it is."

Without another word, he turned around and left. He was once again thrust into the torrential downpour of the midnight rainstorm, but this time, he knew where to go. He remembered seeing Trench Street before, so if he kept going on that, he'd hit Marryat Blvd., right?

True to Jack's word, Dora's shabby store sat right in the corner of the intersection. It was the store that had very dim lightning. Well, not anymore.

Edward burst through the door, thinking it was locked, but the door opened with no ease at all. He almost fell on his face. He quickly got up and shut the door behind him before any of the rain got in.

Then he turned around, and came face to face with Dora.

He yelped, tumbling backwards and hitting his head on the front door. He groaned, rubbing his smarting scalp. And then he opened his eyes, trying to glare at the woman who caused his pain.

But he couldn't.

His eyes widened as he realized Dora didn't have her sunglasses on. Instead, shiny mirrors took the place of her eyes.

It was the creepiest thing he'd ever seen.

* * *

><p>"He's not dead, Alphonse."<p>

Al looked up. Saint-Germain seemed to be in deep thought. "What do you mean?" the boy said cautiously.

"I mean," the count began, "he may be gone, but he's not dead."

Joan nodded enthusiastically. "He's right. Edward is reckless, temperamental, egotistical, self-confident, hot-headed, irritating, indecent—"

Francis coughed.

"—but there's no way he's that stupid. He won't kill himself off that easily; as long as you're still alive, he'll keep living as well. It's only the matter of finding him."

"Really?" Al asked, unconvinced.

"I'm sure of it! You know him better than I do."

"Which is the reason why I know he's gone off somewhere and done something really stupid," Alphonse said, sighing. He shrugged dejectedly. "So what now? If he's not dead, then how can we find him?"

Saint-Germain was quiet.

"No, really," Alphonse persisted. "Tell me."

"I . . ." the count stammered. "I think . . . we have to go talk to an Elder about this."

Al jumped up from his place on the couch. His head spun for an instant before settling. He wobbled on his feet. But still, he managed to ground out, "What are you saying, Francis? Don't tell me we're going to those guys and asking for their help! Didn't you say they couldn't be trusted?"

Joan ushered the boy to sit back down. "Now, now. Calm yourself, Alphonse. Just . . . just let us explain, all right?"

The youngest Elric reluctantly did so.

"There are certain…Elders…on Earth," Joan began slowly, "that are not loyal to the Dark Elders. Some actually choose to live away from the humans altogether, to vow to never associate with them. Others, though, are on our side and help our cause, as you know already, Alphonse."

"Right," Francis said, "and we're going to take you to see one of our ally Elders."

"Well, he's not really an ally. He's been neutral these past few millennia, sleeping in his tomb," Joan said.

Alphonse cringed. "You make it sound scary."

"You'll be scared when you go there," Francis said.

Joan slapped him on the arm. "Well, if we don't go to him, we only have Noticula left, and she's all the way in Austria."

"She's more trustworthy than _him_," the count said.

"We don't have the time!" Joan protested. "We need to see him, now! It's going to take days to get to Austria with the transportation arrangement and the actual getting there!"

"Sorry, but aren't _I_ the one to—"

"Um, excuse me," Alphonse interrupted, holding up a finger. "Could you please tell me who this 'him' is? Because I honestly have no idea what you're talking about here and I'm beyond the point of lost, so . . ."

The Frenchwoman sighed. "Sorry, Alphonse. We got so caught up in our arguing, we totally forgot about you!"

"Thanks," the boy muttered.

"You'll find out when we get there," Francis said distractedly.

"I think he deserves to know," Joan said, giving her fiancé a pointed look. "Don't you think?"

"I still think we should go first and let him find out on his own," the count stated.

"Well, we're not going to do that," Joan decided for them both, turning back to Alphonse. "We're actually planning on heading over to the Catacombs under Paris. You know what that is, right, Alphonse? It's not far from here."

"I'm not sure . . ." the boy said. "Is it that place where they throw the dead bodies?"

Joan cringed, her pride as a Frenchwoman wounded. "I . . . suppose it could be put in that term, yes."

Alphonse grimaced, suddenly realizing the situation. "And you say an Elder _lives_ under there."

"He's not really living," Francis said.

"He's alive," Joan confirmed. "He's just a bit stuck."

"So what's his name?"

Saint-Germain looked at Joan, and she stared back.

"Well," she said. "We're going to see the Roman god of war, Mars. Mars Ultor."

* * *

><p><strong>I did this in a hurry, but it was fun to write, so they'll be a couple of mistakes in there. Like always. I don't have a Beta Reader, never will. It's not like this story getting published or anything.<strong>

**So yeah. There's this Roman goddess up there named Noticula, and I did not make her up. She's been mentioned in the books, and yes, she's really in Austria. (BTW, I think I should really return those library books or else I can't sign anything out.)**

**You know, with all the reading Ed does, he should be blind by now. I'd love to see him in reading glasses or something. Ultimate, but badass, book-nerd right there. Being more blind in the rain isn't all that false, either. I have a friend who has bad eyesight too, and he can't see anything in the rain.**

**I'll update whenever I can. School mostly gets in the way. Thanks for understanding!**

**-LUNAticX**


	11. XI: Along The Dark Path

**Hi, people. Sorry I haven't updated in so long. Like, seven - eight months? There really isn't a good excuse for it. Well, I'M SORRY. I figured that I should start writing once the schoolwork load has diminished a bit. And it hasn't until now, because I'm going to high school and our teachers never have any secret meetings so they don't know how much they give us altogether. And they're teachers, they should know. Sorry, I'm ranting again. I'll just give the disclaimer.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own SINF and/or Fullmetal Alchemist.**

* * *

><p>"I hope you're kidding," Alphonse said, not excited <em>at all.<em>

"Why would we kid about such a thing?" Saint-Germain said. "You know that the myths and legends are all true. Is it really that surprising that a Roman war god is—?"

"Not that," Al said abruptly. "I already know that. What I don't get is _why_ we have to see a Roman _war god_. Please tell me something sounds wrong about that. Because if I'm right, Mars Ultor means 'Mars the Avenger'. I don't have a death wish. I don't know about you two, but I'm perfectly fine going to see this Noticula person you've mentioned earlier."

"It's true that Mars is bitter after all these millennia," Joan said after a while, "but he's still neutral as far as I'm concerned. He won't destroy you for any wrong reason."

". . . Why did you say 'you'?"

Saint-Germain sighed, rubbing his forehead. "The god has got two minions that take the form of a half-goat, half-human being."

"Fauns."

"Right. But they're not any old jolly good fauns you've heard about in the stories. These guys are the real deal. One senses your worst nightmare and throws you into a hallucination and the other feeds off of your fear. If you show any of these things in their presence, you're gone. Just like that."

Alphonse gulped.

"But that isn't very likely, with Mars' condition," Francis finished.

"What is his condition?" Alphonse asked.

"Well, remember what we said about him being stuck?"

The young boy nodded.

"The thing is . . . he's really stuck. As in stuck in place and unable to move. So there's really nothing for you to fear."

"And you're sure about this."

"N . . . no," the count admitted. "I'm trying to get you not to feel fear by lying about it, but it doesn't seem to be working."

Alphonse stood up from his seat. "It doesn't matter to me. I don't see why I have to fear a mythical being." He sighed wearily. "All right, let's get this over with. Which way is the Paris Catacombs?"

"Are you sure about this?" Joan demanded urgently, standing up quickly. "Are you positively sure about this?"

The boy shrugged. "If Mars decides to kill us, we're dead. And if we fail into getting his support, we'll die anyway. What's the difference between that and not going at all? The only choice we have is to succeed. I don't see another way."

"I don't want to make you do something you'll regret," Joan said, clearly distressed as her French accent was showing through.

Francis placed a hand on her shoulder. "He'll be fine."

"Wait—I'm not going in alone," Alphonse said, holding up a finger. "That's one of my conditions. Don't you think it's better if we all went together? You know, strength in numbers? If I do manage to get out of there alive by myself, I don't want to recount it from the beginning for you two."

"You're right," Joan said. She took her fiancé's hand. "Come. The nearest entrance to the Catacombs is a few blocks away."

The trio got up and went downstairs via a wooden staircase built behind the actual church that led outside.

"Handy," Alphonse commented.

"Why, thank you," Joan said.

"So where are we headed exactly?"

"There's this park a view blocks away," Francis began. "We move a statue aside and there should be the entrance right under it."

"Aren't you afraid anyone would see us?"

"That won't be a problem," the count replied. "Nothing a little magic couldn't fix."

Alphonse hesitated. "Well . . . all right. If you say so."

He wasn't exactly comfortable with the prospect of magic yet. He accepted that it was real, but thinking that many depended so much on it made him reluctant to agree to further exploits.

The three casually slipped into the bustling street, making sure that their secret mission wasn't noticed. A man and woman stood hand-in-hand with a boy in the middle, their son, and they seemed like any other typical family. However . . .

"This is never going to work," Alphonse said.

"Shh," Joan hushed. "If you say it won't, it won't. Now be quiet."

"This way," Saint-Germain said, crossing the street and into an alley.

He led Joan and Alphonse past the alley and emerged at the other side, where they ended up in a green park. There was a pond nearby, where the children played and birds swam. An elderly man sat on a bench, feeding the pigeons. And a bunch of schoolchildren sat under a tree, listening to what their teacher was saying.

"Doesn't seem very empty," Al pointed out.

"It's in the garden," Francis whispered.

Together, all three of them merrily marched across the park, none of the other visitors paying them any mind. A hedge opened up for them, and they entered. It looked like a maze at first, but the bushes opened up to reveal a lush garden filled with colourful flowers and singing birds. The center was in the shape of a square. White marbles statues were situated at each corner.

"It's around here somewhere," Joan said, beginning her search for the entrance. "I would remember it, but all these statues look the same to me."

Alphonse decided to help search, looking under bushes and trees, flowers and vines. When he went under some foliage to examine the soil, his foot got caught in a tangle of leaves and he heaved with all his might to get it out. He tried a couple of times, and on the last try, he successfully dislodged himself from the vegetation. However, the force of the pull sent him stumbling backwards and he bumped into something hard and cold.

He whirled around, just in time to see Cupid shatter on the ground.

"Sorry," he said, though he knew Cupid couldn't hear him.

"That's okay," Joan said. She looked down. "You've found the entrance at least."

"What? I did?"

"_Oui_. We'll fix the statue. Then we'll enter the catacombs."

With his magic, Saint-Germain repaired the statue and pushed it up beside the hole leading down into the depths. Joan went in first, then Alphonse, and then he was last to close up the entrance.

The tunnel was submerged in complete darkness.

"Anyone got a light?" Al asked.

"Yes, hold on." Saint-Germain held up a hand and willed his fire magic to work. Then his hand sparked to life. "Ah! There we go."

"Isn't that something," Joan murmured, taking her fiancé's hand. "He's the Master of Fire, you know."

But Alphonse wasn't listening. He was staring straight down into the blackness.

"I could hear it," he murmured. "Souls. So many souls. I didn't know how many have died and were thrown in here. There have to be . . . thousands." He tilted his head to the side. "And yet . . . there is a large soul down there as well. Is that Mars?"

"Yes." Joan sounded surprised. "You can sense souls?"

Alphonse grasped at his shirt. He nodded once. After all, he used to be just a soul as well, stuck in an empty suit of armour.

"I've never heard of that ability," Francis said. "Well, in any case, we should get going."

They went down, down, down—it went on forever, never stopping, it seemed. Finally, the ground leveled out and Saint-Germain's light flickered. They've stopped in a hall, filled with human skulls.

"No matter how many times I've been done here," the count said, "I can't quite get used to this sight."

"_Moi aussi_," Joan muttered.

They continued on. The hall kept on going until they reached a rectangular room that looked like the sewers. The first thing that struck Alphonse was the smell. It was musty, stinky, gross. It was rather unorthodox to place a sewer inside the graves of millions of people.

"Yes," Joan said, as if answering Alphonse's silent question, "the sewers of Paris are connected to the Catacombs."

They pinched their noses as they walked past. They came to another hall still filled with human skulls. A little while later, they came to a bigger room, one filled with white bones. In the center of the room stood a bone-white pillar and a giant skull of . . . some kind of prehistoric animal. The large kind.

"He's in there," Francis said.

Alphonse gulped. The eeriness sent chills down his spine. He was hoping it'd take longer to get here, because he was dreading the meeting with Mars. If this Elder was imprisoned in such a rotten place, he had to be menacing and no less terrifying.

Francis and Joan were already heading through the bone gates. Alphonse stood frozen in his spot.

"What's wrong?" Joan asked, peering over her shoulder. "We must hurry, Alphonse."

"No. Sorry. It's just—" He clutched at his chest. "I could feel such a tremendous soul in there."

"Are you frightened?" asked the Count. "It's all right if you are."

"I'm fine," Alphonse assured him.

"Are you sure you don't have any aura?" the count said. "I don't think sensing a soul is possible for any mortal human."

Joan squeezed her fiancé's hand. "Now's not the time. Alphonse"—she nodded once, reassuringly—"do not show any fear."

Alphonse jerked his head once. He didn't have the courage to come up with a response. He was afraid his voice would come out pathetic and squeaky. Before Joan had brought it up again, he was fine. But now that she reminded him to _show no fear—_guess what? He was frightened. Fear threatened to grab ahold of his legs and force him to run the other way.

But he couldn't. They made it this far, and he wasn't going to back out. He was seeing this through.

_For Brother._

"Come on, then."

Joan and Francis led the way. Alphonse was right behind them—so close, he swore he stepped on their heels a couple of times. He wrapped his thick coat around himself. Was it him, or did it just get so much colder and darker?

It was probably the work of Mars the Avenger.

The cavern was dark and ominous. There wasn't a light except for the fire Francis had conjured up in his hand. Alphonse did not know much about the powers of magic he possessed, but he could guess that the reason why the count couldn't make a bigger light was because it would burn up his aura. Truthfully, Alphonse didn't want to catch a glimpse of everything. He was better off not knowing.

"How big is this place?" he whispered.

Even though his voice was only so wispy and quiet, the sound made him cringe. Alphonse knew it was impossible, but his voice seemed to literally echo around the cavern. The loudness and the long drawn-out echoes gave him an idea about how big this cave actually was. It wasn't just his voice that shook him, either. There were the tell-tale sounds of footsteps belonging to him and his two other companions.

There was another sound out there—some kind of quick scurrying—but he couldn't be sure.

_Come on, Al, _he told himself. _You've survived going through the Gate—on numerous occasions, even. _This_ you can handle._

But in real life, some reassurances just didn't work.

"He's not too far off," Francis said in his normal tone of voice.

Compared to his earlier octave, the sound of the count's voice made Alphonse fear the collapse of the cave entirely. But he had to trust the Frenchwoman and the count. At first he didn't trust them. Maybe he still didn't. But they were all he had, and he had to stick with them through to the end. Besides, they came down here already, many times. Not much could go wrong.

And as soon as he thought that, the entire cavern lit up. One-by-one from the center, arcs of torches lit outwards and around, encircling the cave in a harmony of torchlight. The occupants froze.

They certainly weren't alone. Not too far off, dark figures began to emerge from the shadows. They came up from behind a giant statue—a depiction of a man in armor. As Alphonse looked closer, he realized that the statue was glowing red hot, with a reddish-purplish aura surrounding it.

"Don't tell me that's Mars," he said.

"Do not show fear," the count ordered.

Alphonse shut up, converting his brain power to controlling his emotions. This was no time to go nuts about everything—about how he'd lost his brother, about how he was all alone, and about all that he learned, about the magic and gods—

"I told you not to show fear," Francis said. "Stop thinking, Alphonse."

"I'm trying."

The dark shadows from before took shape. Well, if one could call it that. They resembled short, furry creatures, but they seemed to shift in and out of existence, as if they were actually made of shadows. Alphonse caught sight of a pair of horns. He didn't know which was which, but one thing he was fairly certain of: This was Phobos and Deimos, Mars' servants.

Both Phobos and Deimos flanked the glowing statue's two sides. That was probably Mars right there, trapped in some kind of rock.

"Oh…" Alphonse said. "_Oh_. That's what you meant by 'stuck', wasn't it?"

Joan nodded her head grimly. "Yes. Years ago, a terrible curse was unleashed upon Mars. This spelled caused Mars Ultor to be trapped right in the hardening case of his own aura. It's a terrible fate."

"_I should say so,_" rumbled a deep voice. "_Or perhaps I deserve this._"

"Mars," Francis said.

"Every time he moves up from his place," Joan continued, "his aura would harden again. That is why he cannot ever leave this cave."

"_That is not the case. I choose not to leave because I vow to protect the people._"

"By staying trapped down here?" Alphonse asked. "You think just because you're insane it means you could stay away from everyone? Whether you like it or not, people are dying out there. You can help them."

Alphonse shut his mouth, realizing what he'd just done. Joan looked at him sharply, shaking her head.

"_All anyone's ever done is come down here asking for my help. Just let me sleep. If I must be like this for eternity, I would rather rest for eternity rather than fight_."

"But you are the war god," Alphonse said.

Joan shot him another look, urging him to shut up. _Let us deal with this,_ her look said.

Alphonse reluctantly mellowed. They were trying to find _his_ brother. He had a right to be a part in this.

"Please, call off your servants," urged Joan. "We come just for a simple question, because we think that you might know the answer."

"_You think I would know, being trapped down here for centuries,_" said the god. "_Don't make me laugh._"

"Why are you so bitter and cold?" Alphonse demanded. He couldn't help it. If this small talk continued, he would never find out where his brother had gone. "Why do you refuse to help anyone? In the stories, you were a hero—a hero of the people. Are you going to abandon us again?"

"_I abandoned you a long time ago!_" the god bellowed. A fissure cracked in his rock armor. "_First it's my two sons and now this…I do not want to help! I cannot! Leave. Me. Be!_"

Mars' anger caused a tremor to occur in the underground cavern. Alphonse's knees buckled and he tumbled onto the floor.

Phobos and Deimos unlocked themselves from their paralyses and approached the humans. They bared their fangs, claws extended. Alphonse dreaded the thought of dying here, in this dark, damp cave. And the worse thing?

He would never get to know what happened to Edward.

_Fear . . . Horror . . . Pain . . . Sadness . . . Loss._

So many things echoed in Alphonse's mind, threatening to tug him out of the present and into the past—a past where many of his fears and horrors were hidden. He didn't want to go back there. But Phobos and Deimos were taking advantage of it. He had no choice. He had to go back.

_It's the only way to fight it,_ a voice told him.

He felt a terrible wrench, one more horrible than when he felt his whole body disintegrate into tiny molecules. More horrible than being tore apart before the Gate. More horrible than seeing his dear brother die with blood seeping through the hole in his chest.

_To fight it is to accept it._

The first thing he saw was the basement of his old house. He saw a chalk-lined transmutation circle below his feet. He saw a giant bowl with dark matter inside. Two drops of crimson liquid. So this is just after their mother died. This is the moment that would change their lives forever. The moment that started everything.

Things seemed to go by in fast-forward. Alphonse saw his own self beside a younger Edward, bending down before the transmutation circle and activating it, calling for their mother.

But things started to go wrong. Before Alphonse could register what happened, he was back in his smaller body, reliving the moment that he always wanted to forget, but never could. All over again, he felt his body being torn apart and dragged inside the Gate.

"Brother!" he screamed.

_Al!_

Alphonse eyes widened. That voice . . . It was his, Edward's.

_Al! Alphonse! Not my brother! Bring him back!_

Just as his body completely disappeared, Alphonse was dragged out of the fray and watching everything in third-person again. He saw Edward crying over the malformed mutation that was their 'mother', and saw him call back the soul of his younger brother.

_To fight it is to accept it._

"Mother's gone," Alphonse spoke, as if he'd just realized it. "We can't . . . It's impossible to bring back the dead."

It was like some sort of punishment. The same event, from start to finish, played over and over again.

Alphonse felt stinging tears slide down his cheeks.

_M-Mom . . . ?_

The scene shifted. He was no longer standing inside the musty old basement, but outside his house. Except his house was burning. Edward was beside him, like always, and he sported his flaming-red coat, which seemed even more blazing in the flickering embers of the fire.

_We no longer have a home._ Edward looked determined. _We can't go back._

"No turning back," said Alphonse.

_No._

"But Brother, what are we going to do now?"

_Isn't it obvious? We can never come back to this. We need to move forward. We need to get our bodies back._

His surroundings dimmed. Alphonse hung his head.

"But is that really all it is? Was burning our home really going to erase all the sins we've committed? All you're doing is running away, Brother."

The scene melted into darkness, and was quickly replaced by another. This one was more recent. They were under the earth, in the city that disappeared overnight. Wrath was still by the side. Rose was grief-stricken, holding her baby. And Edward . . .

He was laying there, his life bleeding out of him. Envy was laughing.

"Brother?" Alphonse's voice seemed tiny, unimportant. "Brother, don't go."

He'd brought Edward back to life. But everything else he had no control over. No matter how many selfless decisions he made for his brother, Edward would always come back and break the record. He watched as Edward once again sacrificed his mind, soul and body to revive his younger brother.

_There is no such thing as Equivalent Exchange. And if what my father says is true, then Al's soul should be still inside the Gate. My body, mind and soul should be enough to revive him. But that's all I could give him, in the end . . . And perhaps, another chance at life, without all this crap I've put him through._

With a resounding clap throughout the stillness, the darkness lit up. Slowly, Edward's existence melted away, until in his place, was a sleeping boy.

"Why, Ed? You're always so selfless. Why don't you just live for yourself and be happy?" Alphonse felt himself getting sleepy. "Don't you understand? I did everything for _you_. I was supposed to die in the beginning."

The scene changed, and for the last time. Alphonse recognized this memory. This was right after he'd reunited with Ed and taken down Eckhart, the one who caused all the destruction in Amestris with her warship. Wanted to conquer Shamballa, she said.

They were on the human-made ship. Edward was transmuting it in half. Each piece was headed in a different direction.

_I've got to get back and close the Gate, so nothing like this can happen again._

"Why?" Alphonse yelled. "What about everyone? What about Winry? Don't you know she'll miss you too?"

Edward smiled. _Sorry, Al. This is something I've got to do._ He turned slowly, as if to draw out the moment so it'd last longer, and then disappeared into the bridge. Alphonse realized that Edward didn't want to leave as much as he wanted him to stay. But he had to. This wasn't his world anymore.

"Let me go," Alphonse demanded at Mustang.

_Are you sure? _the ex-colonel said. _You know you can't come back, Alphonse._

Alphonse nodded once. "Make sure you close the Gate on this side. And also . . . take care of everyone for us."

Mustang relented. Alphonse performed a quick transmutation to get him across to the other half. He readied himself for the trip, hiding inside a suit of armor, just like the old times.

"Maybe it wasn't such a good idea," he said to himself as the memory dissolved. "We're in this mess because I decided to come along. If I listened to him, maybe we wouldn't be having this problem, or another tragic story."

_To fight it is to accept it._

"I accept it," Alphonse said, closing his eyes. "I accept all of it."

He was wrenched out of time again—but this time it was smoother, more calming and gentle. Alphonse knew he was in the right place. His chest felt so much lighter, rid of all his worries. There was really no use to fear anything.

Alphonse opened his eyes. He suddenly found himself face to face with Phobos and Deimos' claws, an inch from running him through. He was kneeling on the floor, panting like he'd run a marathon, but it was from the adrenaline. Phobos and Deimos stood over him, frozen in their spots.

Then they made a harsh cracking sound, like they were made of stone before, and now they've just broken the spell. They backed away from him and into the shadows once more.

Joan and Francis came running over and knelt down beside him.

"Are you all right?" Joan fussed over him like an over-concerned mother. "What happened? Did they hurt you?"

"No," Alphonse said.

"What did you see?" Francis demanded.

"I don't…"

A hoarse barking sound came from the statue of Mars Ultor. Alphonse noticed that he was actually_ laughing._

"_You, mortal, actually fought off my minions. No one has ever done that before._"

"I had help," Alphonse admitted.

"_I would like to know how you managed that._"

"Actually, I came here in search of an answer. I can only tell you so much." Alphonse waited for the god's response, knowing he would be disappointed once again. However, this time a surprise came around.

"_And I shall give you the help._"

"Hold on." Francis got to his feet and stood over his fiancé and Alphonse protectively. "You just said that you won't help us, just a second ago. Something's odd about this. Why the sudden change of judgment?"

"_It is not fitting for a god to say this…but this boy has given me hope. Survive a few more years, young one, and perhaps we can save the world._"

"And you'll be willing to help?" Alphonse said.

"_I will not promise that. A lot can change in a century. You mortals always think just because we are gods, and that we have been this way for millennia, means that we cannot change. Time goes one, people change. It is how life works._"

"But you're willing to help _now_?"

"_Correct. Since you passed my test, I shall grant you that much. Now what is your question?_"

Alphonse was still a bit dazed from his nerve-jarring 'test', so he crawled to his feet, standing before Mars Ultor. He trusted the god not to suddenly betray them all and summon his terrifying minions.

"I am looking for my brother, Edward," Alphonse stated, straight to the point. "We came because we wanted to know where he might be."

"_I told you,_" said the god, "_being trapped down here means I'm not up to current events. And Edward is a common name. You need to be more specific._"

"Elric," Alphonse said. "Specific enough?"

Mars stood straight up, cracking open his hard shell of a prison, and grasped at Alphonse's shoulders. His grip was strong. He was currently rid of his rock aura, and Alphonse could see the full glory of the war god, standing regally in his crimson armor.

Alphonse was afraid that once his aura started hardening again, he would never be able to get out until Mars moved again. And the god made it seem like the effort was only a once-in-a-century-thing.

"_You are Hohenheim's son_." It was a statement, not a question.

Alphonse nodded stiffly. He couldn't exactly move his head very well. Mars' hands were massive.

"_He came to me once before_," Mars said.

"He's dead."

"_Unfortunate_."

"Don't say it like he's just collateral damage!" Alphonse felt his anger boil just from being too close to this guy. He figured this was one of Mars' affects—you know, from being a war god, and a highly insane one.

"_Where was your brother last seen?_" Mars asked.

"Why? I thought you didn't know?"

"_If this is about _that _Edward, then I would know that he is no longer in this world_."

"What—are you saying he found his way into a Shadowrealm?" Saint-Germain said.

Mars didn't say anything. He was probably nodding. But it was pretty hard to tell.

When Mars looked down at him, Alphonse could see a pool of sparkling blue eyes. It was filled with anxiety, sympathy, and above all else…compassion. Alphonse didn't think the war god was capable of this. The moment seemed to have lasted forever. Mars' eyes spoke thousands of words, many of them Alphonse found confusing. And then Mars blinked, his irises once again replaced by liquid hot fire.

"_I need more specific details if I am to help you,_" continued the god. "_Tell me where you have last seen him._"

"A few days ago," Alphonse supplied. "Off the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. He was on a boat ride with a guide."

It wasn't much, but Alphonse could feel the god's shaking hands. He was afraid the hardened aura would crack again and spray him with sharp shrapnel.

"_I do not think your brother is in this world,_" Mars confirmed. "_He is also not in this time, either. You would best abandon searching for him. He's a lost cause._"

"How can you say that?" Alphonse demanded. "I would never stop searching for him! He's my brother! Siblings don't just abandon each other like that, no matter where they are—_when_ they are."

"_I commend your chivalry,_" Mars said with surprising regret, "_but you can't do anything for your brother. He is in another time entirely. If you wish, you can live the rest of your life out and hopefully meet him again someday. But I cannot guarantee that the time is near. He may be two hundred years into the future. Time holds no boundaries, nor is it merciful._"

"I can't just leave him," Alphonse muttered.

"_Tell me_," said Mars, "_did you find anything on an ancient circle with geometrical patterns on them?_"

"Is that important?" Alphonse said, shoulders sagging.

"_Did you?_"

"Yes, now that I think about it." Alphonse perked up. "Ed was looking at a book with a transmutation circle on it. It's located in the Gulf. Do you think he…?"

"_Yes, I believe he went forward in time via that transmutation circle. Such a thing to call it, too. Tell me, which world are you from?_"

Alphonse stared at the god in disbelief. He turned and saw that neither Francis nor Joan had heard anything.

"Amestris," he told the god. "Beyond the Gate. Do you know of it?"

Mars stared. "_Yes. Now everything makes sense._"

"What do you mean by that?"

"_The transmutation circle. It has the ability to do extraordinary things. It's the very thing that sent your brother forward in time._"

"Forward? How do you know that?"

"_Because, I imagine, there are far greater problems in the future than now. Which also means that the problems now cannot be resolved in your lifetime. The Great Circle probably needed your brother's help for that reason._"

"Why him?"

"_Because he was the first. You can try to go there and activate it, but it will not work. It already has a candidate. You'll just have to wait things out, I'm afraid._"

"Isn't there anything you can do?" Alphonse prompted. "Please, can't you bring Edward back?"

"_It is out of my power._"

"Then can you bring me to him?"

"_That is also out of my power. Although_"—Mars got a gleam in his eyes, and that was pretty hard to miss—"_there is another way._"

"What is it?"

"_You have to wait._"

"You already mentioned that."

"_No. I shall help you wait._"

"How will you—?"

"_You have no aura,_" Mars noted. "_Perhaps that shall make things a little easier._"

"Hold on!" Alphonse suddenly shouted, causing both Francis and Joan to come over to see what was wrong.

"Have you got your answer?" the count asked.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Alphonse said to Mars. "What do you mean it 'makes things a little easier'?"

"_I shall make you immortal,_" said the god.

"Wait, _what_?" Francis said.

"_It will help you wait, like I said._"

"That is not helping," Joan said. "_Pas du tout._ You can kill him by Awakening him!"

"Oh Truth," Alphonse breathed. "You can't be serious."

"_Do you not want to see your brother? I don't understand what the problem is._"

"This boy has no aura to begin with!" Francis said. "You can kill him!"

"_Not exactly. You've been misinformed. In fact, it's safer when the target has no aura, thus no fear of an overload of senses._"

"He could gain an aura. It's still too risky!"

"_That is true. But at least the process will be less dangerous. The effects afterwards may hurt a bit more. You have heard of Gilgamesh the King, correct? He was thought to have possessed an aura in the first place, but lost it after his Awakening. Now he has nothing and cannot use the magic he has knowledge of. It's such a shame too. I pity him._"

"How does that help?" Joan demanded, her French accent pronounced with stress.

"_With Alphonse Elric's Awakening, I believe the process will be backwards. No aura to begin with, after Awakening, he receives an aura, and he is immortal. It has not been done before, but not impossible. It is a gift bestowed upon you by a god. Why do you hesitate in this decision?_"

"Because I'm not stupid," Alphonse said. "I've heard about this Awakening process. And I know I'll die. So no thank you. Let go of me and I'll promise you I'll find my brother, but in my own way."

"_I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter,_" Mars rumbled darkly.

Before Alphonse could process what he meant by that, a blinding light wrapped around his mind, forcing his senses to withdraw completely. He was floating in a white, empty plain, similar to the one Truth resided within.

"_Too many times,_" he heard the voice was Mars speak, "_too many times have I seen foolish mortals make the same mistake. I will not let that happen again. My sons were the prime examples. They were stubborn and simple-minded. You will soon see how this Awakening shall benefit you. I regret this by forcing this on you, but this is for your own good, Alphonse Elric._"

Pain exploded inside Alphonse's mind. Everything seemed to literally shatter. His every being burned with a bright fire, threatening to implode outwards from the inside. Alphonse couldn't sense anything around him. He could feel strong hands gripping him, and he could feel the horrible pain, but nothing else registered. He never felt so alone.

Mars' voice echoed inside his mind, making his throat burn.

"_Alphonse, son of Van Hohenheim and Trisha, of Clan Elric, of the race humani…_"

There were more words, but Mars' voice became warbled and static—something about Earth Lords and the Ancients' betrayal. It cleared later on, enough for Alphonse to hear the rest of the Awakening.

"_I Awaken this terrible power within you…These are the senses that the humani of abandoned._"

Behind closed eyes, Alphonse braced himself.

"_To see with acuity…_"

Pain pricked behind his eyes. They were like a thousand stabbing needles into his cornea. It was worse than uncomfortable. It was nearly unbearable. But—he kept reminding himself, only to keep him sane—for a person with an aura, it had to be tens of thousand times worse than this.

"_To hear with clarity…_"

His ears popped. Something buzzed behind his head. It felt like a huge gravitational force pressing on his eardrums. Alphonse squirmed, but he couldn't feel himself doing it.

"_To taste with purity…_"

His tongue tingled. When was the last time he'd eaten something, brushed his teeth? His mouth tasted so bad. Hadn't he noticed this before?

"_To touch with sensitivity…_"

His nerves turned on like a live wire. He could suddenly feel the god's hands on him. It hurt so badly, it felt so heavy. He could feel the breeze wafting into the cavern. What was this? Why did the breeze sting him so badly?

"Please stop," he whimpered.

"_To smell with intensity…_"

Air rushed out his nose. When he breathed in again, his brain could detect every smell he brought in. Most of them weren't good fragrances. Alphonse threatened to wretch up what he didn't have. He gagged instead.

"_I bestow these gifts upon you, humani, so that you may bid well to use these newly found senses wisely._"

Mars cracked his arms away from Alphonse. The sound of it made Alphonse cringe and stumble backwards. He hit the floor hard—or was that just the sensation of his heightened touch? Either way, it didn't feel so good.

Alphonse was gasping and groaning with pain. He opened his eyes, seeing every little detail. He saw the count and Joan of Arc hunched over him. He shut his eyes closed. It was so, so bright. He knew the room was dark, but it was still so bright.

"Please stop this!" he heard Joan yell. He wanted to tell her to shut up, but everything hurt. "Shut his senses off! You can do that. Teach him how to turn them off! It's too much for him to bear."

Alphonse cracked open an eyelid and saw Mars pointing a hardening finger at him.

"_Be still, and let the knowledge of the senses become in your control,_" he said."_Humani, I give you the knowledge of the old._"

A pure black haze exploded around Alphonse, threatening to consume him. The force of the blast sent both Francis and Joan flying backward. They couldn't see anything in the darkness. The black haze seemed to have made everything darker.

"Be careful!" the count told Joan. "We don't know what it can do!"

"Alphonse is in there!" Joan yelled. "We have to save him!"

"_Foolish mortals._" Mars was standing unharmed inside the storm. "_Watch and see._"

Saint Germain squinted into the black cyclone. Standing in the center of it was Alphonse, all well and alive, looking at his hands in shock. His eyes were black like the shadow, an endless pit of darkness. The storm was circling around _him_, not attacking him.

"He's the…!" Joan said, figuring out what was going on.

Mars nodded. "_Yes. He is the source of this power overload. It will end soon, and his senses will be lowered to a minimum where it will not harm him. He is in control._"

"But that's…"

"_Yes,_" Mars said. "_You are looking at his aura, pure black as the night, rarest of them all, perhaps the most powerful standing by itself. I almost cannot believe it myself. Not many in history have had this colour of aura. He's the most fortunate humani to possess such potential. Although I was hoping he wouldn't have an aura at all. Now imagine the danger he will put us all in if he doesn't learn to use it effectively. I wasn't planning on giving him magical ability along with immortality and heightened senses. Training him will be your jobs from now on._"

Joan continued to gape slack-jawed as the aura storm slowly subsided. The torchlights were no longer obscured by the haze and lit up the room again. Alphonse stood there for a split-second in utter shock before he tipped sideways and crashed towards the floor.

That was enough to get Saint-Germain and Joan to abandon their stupor and run for Alphonse.

Joan scooped him into her arms. "Alphonse?" she called to him.

"He's sleeping," the count said. "We should get him out of here."

Joan nodded, and then paused, staring at the peculiar expression upon Alphonse's face. "He's smiling, _mon chérie_."

"We ought to ask him what happened between him and Mars that got him this way," Saint-Germain muttered.

Mars backed into the darkness and sat at his throne, hardening into his place. Then he watched as the two couples brought the unconscious frail boy out and away from his cavern.

"_You will come back one day and thank me for this,_" Mars boomed into the emptiness. "_And may I see your brother alongside you as you do._"

* * *

><p>Edward was still screaming.<p>

"You scream like a girl," Dora muttered irritably. "Please shut your mouth."

"I'm sorry," Edward said, trying to catch his breath. "It's just you gave me quite a scare th—" His mood immediately turned sour. "Wait. I don't scream like a girl."

Dora pitched her eyebrow. "Don't you?"

"_No_," Ed replied very exasperatedly. He stood up from his place on the ground and dusted his pants off, trying to not look at the old woman. The absence of her eyes unnerved him, especially when he thought she was looking at him—when she had no eyes to _look_ in the first place.

"Where have you been?" Dora demanded, hands on her hips.

Edward massaged the quickly growing bump on his head, grimacing in pain. He'd hit it hard.

"Why are you so wet?" Dora continued to say. "Didn't you take an umbrella with you? I told you it was going to rain tonight!"

"Yeah," Edward said, dropping all expression from his face. "And I like to know why you know that, and why you have mirrors for eyes. I doubt that was an accident, so I'm leaning on you being clinically insane. What the hell are you?"

The old woman pursed her lips, turning her head sharply to another mirror. Edward watched her curiously, wondering why she was doing that. His genius of a mind started to work the pieces at a quick pace, putting the puzzle together bit by bit.

"I asked you first," Dora said. "I'll answer your question, when you answer mine. That's Equivalent Exchange, isn't it, _al-che-mist_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Well, thanks for reading! Things may seem a little different - the facts and the writing style, because I have been training myself constantly by writing everyday. Also, I no longer have the books, so I have no idea how things actually go. I have to go on Google and use the Wikia, which isn't helpful by the way because it provides no details whatsoever. I hope you like my version, though. It's turning into a bit of an AU. Hope you don't mind it.<strong>

**Remember to review, folks! I like feedback very much.**


	12. XII: Sacrifice and Exchange

**Here is another chapter! I'm so happy the summer is finally here! Aren't you? I get to write more now. Recently, my glasses broke, so I can't see anything. Typing is kind of hard, but nothing zoom won't fix!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SINF and/or FMA.**

**Enjoy like you always do! The first part is kind of boring, but it was necessary. The conversation between the Witch of Endor and Ed is more interesting, though.**

* * *

><p>Dr. John Dee was launching a full-out war against the occupants of Hecate's Shadowrealm. He'd just like to say how exhilarating the feeling was.<p>

Flanked on his two sides were the Morrigan and her aunt, Bastet. Their army composed of millions of crows and cats. This didn't sound so intimidating or affective against the were-clans of Hecate's realm, but these weren't ordinary cats and crows. They were deadly and efficient in what they did.

Their goal for today? Capture the Twins of Legend, burn down the Shadowrealm, and kill Flamel. Everything else was collateral damage as far the English doctor was concerned. He just wanted his Codex back.

Dee marched straight past the eye of the storm—where their army battle Hecate's—and made his way towards the Great Tree, Yggdrasil. He brandished the ice sword, Excalibur, in his hand.

"Oh, Flamel!" he taunted gleefully. "Where are you? Come out; come out, wherever you are!"

The Doctor swung his sword and decapitated a furry boar jumping at him. He walked on, ignoring everything else, eyes only set for his goal.

"You know, it's not nice to keep your guest waiting!" he sang. "How rude of you."

"And rude of intruders to enter my home without knocking first!"

Dee looked up. He caught sight of the Goddess of Magic, Hecate. She was unleashing her powerful magic spells at his army. He gritted his teeth in frustration. She needed to be taken out first before he could do anything. She was the only thing standing between him and Flamel.

Hecate needed to go. Her precious Shadowrealm could go along with her.

"Where is Flamel?" Dee yelled upwards. "If you tell me, I will spare you, your creatures and this pitiful Shadowrealm of yours!"

"I owe my allegiance to no one!" Hecate answered. "I do not know where Flamel is. He goes where it wants to go; I have no power over him."

_Then the Twins are most likely with him, if Hecate is here fighting,_ Dee thought._ Then there's also the Shadow. If Scathach is here with Flamel, on his side, she can pose a serious problem._

"You can do what you want!" Hecate said. "But that will all end in vain! The Silver Twin has been Awakened!"

Dee clenched his teeth in frustration, scanning the perimeter for any sign of Flamel and the Twins. He knew they would try to escape while Hecate's army distracted him. They were close; he could feel it.

"All right, then," he growled. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we?"

He stepped forward and muttered a spell, setting the World Tree on fire. From up above, he heard a pained cry, and suddenly Hecate's magical attack was no more. His troops advanced. Dee spared himself a smirk of triumph.

"This is the end!" he called up to Hecate, who was clutching her side and wincing. "Tell me where Flamel is and I'll stop the fire! You can continue to stall, but we all know how it's going to end."

"You fool," Hecate spat. "You have no idea what damage you could do. Destroying Yggdrasil can collapse this and countless other Shadowrealms! Not only will you be pulled along into to it, but if you do survive, the rulers of those Shadowrealms will make sure you _pay_ for what you've done."

Dee laughed. "Tick, tock, goddess."

"We all know how it's going to end," said Hecate, narrowing her eyes. "We all know you're a liar and a tyrant. You will not spare this Shadowrealm no matter what. I will tell you nothing."

The English Doctor sneered venomously. "You've brought about your own demise, goddess."

He stalked off as Hecate rushed inside to put out the fire. The World Tree was connected to her own life source, and if it were to be destroyed, she would die as well. She could literally feel the life pulsing out of her as the fire slowly consumed her beloved home.

Dee tried not to look like he was in a hurry. He walked across the field at a reasonable pace, like he had all the time in the world. Truthfully, he didn't want it to seem to his allies—that is, the Morrigan and Bastet—that he was incompetent and couldn't get any information.

He couldn't in the end, but they didn't need to know that.

Now that Hecate had stopped helping her forces, they were being pushed back quickly. That made cornering Flamel and his party easy.

They were trying to get to their van—the one they had come into the Shadowrealm with—but that seemed rather hard carrying an unmoving person. Josh Newman tried the best he could, but soon Sophie's weight was slowing him down.

"What are they doing?" he said. "Is the tree on fire?"

"Hecate will take care of it," said Flamel. "Our priority is getting out of here."

Scathach was directly behind them, snapping her nunchaku out at unsuspecting crows and yowling cats. "We better make it fast. I think we've been spotted."

The Alchemyst cursed. "This really isn't good."

As he ran, Josh sneaked a peek at his sister. She was unconscious, her face pale and forehead sweaty. He didn't like the fact that she was Awakened at such a moment's notice—it seemed much too dangerous, especially when Dee was just launching his attack. He urged her to be okay. He didn't know what to do if she died and left him all alone.

"It's Dee!" Scathach shouted. "He's seen us!"

"Let's hurry; we'll take the vehicle he came here with," Flamel said.

They weren't as fast, though. The English Doctor cut them off about halfway. Flamel, Scathach and the Twins were cornered at a tree that they hid behind.

"We can't just make a run for it," said Scatty. "Josh would be left behind. It's far too risky."

Flamel briefly considered using his aura and creating some kind of magical diversion. He was aware of his increased aging. Because he no longer had the Codex safe for the pages Josh managed to tear from the Book as Dee stole it, he couldn't create the Elixir of Life that kept his and Perenelle's eternal youth. He was beginning to grow older and older, and using magic just amplified the rate of his aging.

"Oh, Flamel!" Dee sang. "I know you're there! No use running away! Surrender yourself and the pages of the Codex and maybe I'll spare the children."

Scatty mouthed a plan at Flamel, but the Alchemyst only shook his head.

To Dee, he yelled, "You may spare the children, but that's what you intend to do from the very start! You're going to use them specifically for the Summoning!"

"You honestly think I'm incapable of sincerity?"

"Yes!"

Flamel locked eyes with the Shadow.

Dr. John Dee watched his nemesis hide and cower behind a tree—like that was going to save him.

He gripped Excalibur and made a show of cutting down a wereboar, turning it into a block of ice and shattering it. He hoped Flamel saw that. The man should know who he's dealing with.

"I'm waiting for your response, Flamel!" he called.

Dee could see Scathach and Nicholas having a heated conversation. The only reason why he was letting them live now was because he needed an answer. He could have easily blasted them to pieces right about now. Besides, the Twins needed to be taken in alive. If he accidentally killed them as collateral damage, his masters would not be pleased. His immortality would be removed, and he would be watched under utter humility as he aged into an old man and wither away into dust.

That will _not_ happen. He would make sure he'd get the job done.

"He has Excalibur!" Scatty hissed at Flamel. "I thought it'd been lost."

"Apparently Dee has acquired it someway," Nicholas muttered.

"We still need to leave."

"But what about Hecate?" Josh demanded. "We can't just leave her like that!"

The World Tree was still burning. Hecate's attempt of saving it was seemingly in vain. Every creature living in and around the tree was escaping in a flurry of panic. The birds flew from the tree. Animals fled from the bottom. Others crawled down the side and jumped the rest of the way.

"If the tree goes—" Scatty began.

"I know," said Flamel through clenched teeth. "This Shadowrealm would fall along with countless others. I know that."

"I can help."

Flamel and Scatty both turned. Josh looked down.

Sophie had woken, but her eyes were disks of pure silver. She patted Josh on the arm, requesting to let her down.

"Sophie?" Josh said, very confused.

"Sophie's unconscious," Sophie-not-Sophie said. "Nicholas, it's me, Perenelle."

Flamel took a step forward. "How…?"

"We don't have much time," Perenelle interrupted. "I can only channel my aura through hers for only so long. We need to act quickly."

"Where are you, Perenelle? I'll come and find you."

"I can take care of myself, Nicholas. You've always looked after me, and I'm grateful. But now, let me protect you."

Sophie-Perenelle spread her arms and took a deep breath. A coating of silver aura began shifting around her body until it became nearly opaque. Then tendrils started to snake outwards—towards Dee—taking the form of a whip-like, tentacle shape.

Josh watched the Doctor take a step backward, followed by even more steps. He knew what that was. He was wary—afraid. One of the tendrils nicked him, and he winced in pain. Josh was fascinated.

Scatty grabbed onto his arm and they ran. Flamel was in front. Sophie was the last to go, acting like a barrier between them and Dee.

"You cannot stop us," Perenelle spoke through Sophie. "Come any closer and my aura will suffocate you."

Dee looked like he was having an inner battle with himself. Continue to chase Flamel and the Twins and not survive to tell the tale—Perenelle was a powerful, resourceful sorceress, after all—or let them go and take some other form of trophy?

He whirled around and marched back to Yggdrasil, where Hecate was still battling the flames that threatened to consume her home.

"No such luck?" he called upwards, letting a hint of bitterness slip into his tone.

Hecate emerged from within the trunk of the tree. "Apparently you haven't either."

Dee scowled. "Bastet and the Morrigan are waiting at the entrance. Flamel won't get far."

"And what will you do after you feed your allies into the hands of Perenelle Flamel?"

"They are not my _allies_."

"I wonder what they will do once they hear that."

"Don't misunderstand, Goddess. They know I can't be trusted, either."

Dee remarked with some satisfaction that Hecate appeared to be frail and in a state of pain. She looked older—even though that form wasn't supposed to appear until the evening. He didn't know whether gods could really die, but he was always particularly curious to try it.

He let a twisted smirk creep onto his face.

Hecate narrowed her eyes. "What are you up to, Dee?"

"I'm not going to my masters without accomplishing _something_, Goddess."

Before Hecate could react or even register what he'd said, Dee had thrown Excalibur straight at the Tree. The blade became embedded deep into the bark and ice had already started scaling up the trunk. Hecate shuddered, utter shock donning her face. Ice was starting to creep up her legs as well.

"What have you _done_?" she screamed. Complete rage flared in her eyes. Her three forms seemed to flicker through its stages, but each of them had the same expression: Uncontainable anger.

Dee waved his hand airily. "Oh, it was necessary. This is to show that we servants of the Dark Elders are not to be messed with. Maybe it'll even give Flamel a run for his money."

His remark seemed to make Hecate even angrier.

"You will regret this, Dee! As I have told you, the affected gods will _hunt_ you and make sure you are dead before you return to your so-called masters!" she spat. "I will personally make sure you don't leave this Shadowrealm alive!"

"And how will you do that, Goddess? I'm the one with the army. I'm the one who can still move. And _I'm_ the one who decides whether Yggdrasil falls or not. If you want me to save this realm, you will beg, and I will hear it."

Hecate glared at Dee with the intensity of what a godly being can only manage. "Fine," she said. "Please, will you—"

"Nuh uh," Dee tutted. "I also want to know where Flamel and the Twins are headed."

Hecate swallowed down a colourful insult. "I will not tell you. You will never know."

"Then," said the Doctor, "you will_ burn_. Burn and shatter along with your precious Shadowrealm."

The tree was more than half covered with ice. But on Hecate, it showed more because the ice seemed much thicker and constricting. She craned her neck around to see Dee walking toward Excalibur, still stuck in the bark of Yggdrasil. He had a hand on it, ready to pull it out.

And then Morrigan dropped down from the skies.

"What is it?" Dee snapped. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something important?"

Morrigan ruffled her feathers indignantly. "You need to hear this. I think it's even more important."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Well? What is it?"

"Flamel and the Twins have escaped."

A moment of silence. Dee looked rather calm about the (bad) news, but Morrigan recognized it as the calm that could explode at any second—the scary-calm.

"Why didn't you stop them?" he said.

"We tried," the Morrigan reported. "But they managed to incapacitate our forces. They escaped in your vehicle."

"I ask again: _Why didn't you stop them?_" Dee glared at her. "WHAT MAKES YOU THINK IT'S OKAY? I GAVE YOU AN ORDER, AND I EXPECTED YOU TO FULFILL IT—NOT _FAIL_ IT! Do you know what happens now, Morrigan?"

The Crow Goddess didn't dare to say anything. She kept her mouth shut, but she couldn't seem to hide the fear that sent her primeval instincts ringing.

"You shouldn't blame others for your own failings," chided Hecate. The ice was up to her neck now. "It'll only come to bite you in the back."

"And what do you know?" Dee said. "Look at you now, O' Great Goddess. You haven't chosen a side for millennia and when you do, you choose the _losing side_. You should have joined us; otherwise this wouldn't be happening to you. You should have just taken the safe road."

"That will get the future nowhere."

"Future? I worry about now, Goddess. You should as well."

Hecate could no longer move any part of her body. Her head was now fully encased in ice, but her eyes travelled, following Dee wherever he went. The World Tree itself was now just a huge mountain of frozen ice. It felt as if the whole Shadowrealm was beginning to quake and tremble.

"What happens now?" said the Morrigan.

"Everything's fine," Dee assured, surprising her. "I kind of suspected Flamel would escape; he always does. So I'll just go ahead and take triumph over this Shadowrealm."

"What will you do?"

"Why, I'll destroy it, of course."

"Doctor. You know what that will do. You know what will happen!"

"Yes. You can thank me later."

The Morrigan had her lips pursed, but she didn't object. She flew off in the direction of where she came from, leaving Dee to his own devices.

"Now, Goddess," Dee continued, referring to Hecate, "you should know why you don't mess with me."

Behind her ice coffin, Hecate's eyes widened.

Dee stepped forward and grabbed Excalibur, channelling his aura into the hilt, through the blade, and encompassing the area in which Excalibur was embedded in. Then he gave a mighty heave, wrenching the sword out of the tree.

The ice cracked.

It was a small one at first, but when Dee pulled again, the crack enlarged. Then it spread into another crack, and then another, until the entire Tree seemed to be a mosaic crafted from the purest glass. Hecate's coffin mirrored the action. One could look at it and wonder how the ice managed to hold itself together with all those cracks. It looked much too fragile.

Dee caught the look on her face—a combination of dread and terror. He smiled slowly.

"Oh yes," he said. "This is what happens when you make me angry. Goodbye, Goddess."

He flared his aura and gave one more final pull. The sword was wrenched out of its place, and the tree shattered completely, raining down bits and pieces of ice and wood. First it seemed to explode, the debris making its way to the ground, and the rest seemed to collapse in on itself.

Hecate was caught in the middle of it. Dee didn't see her shatter, but it didn't matter. She was buried under all that rubble, and there was no way she could get out in time before the entire Shadowrealm blinked out of existence.

Speaking of which, he had to get out quickly.

Dee calmly made his way back to Bastet and the Morrigan. He patiently sounded the retreat.

Around him, he could see the landscape crumbling. The trees sunk into the earth. The wildlife began to die. The two suns dimmed considerably, casting the sky into an unhealthy pre-dawn night. The Shadowrealm looked very primitive, as if it was back in the ages where it was still being created. Up in the sky, the Shadowrealms Yggdrasil connected to—taking the form of multi-coloured stars—started to blink out of existence.

"The chain reaction's starting," Bastet said.

"Which gives us all the more reason to get going," Dee replied.

"And how will we do that? Flamel took the car."

Dee cursed.

"Well, I guess," he said, "we'll just have to walk. Flamel can pay for the damage later."

Bastet and Morrigan called back their minions. They waited for them all to gather before leaving the Shadowrealm.

"By the way," Dee stated casually, like he wasn't overseeing the murder of potentially a dozen different worlds, "how _did_ Flamel escape, exactly? Wasn't the power to the vehicle cut off?"

"They probably got it restarted with his aura."

"Right. Of course. And that Silver Twin…"

"She is Awakened."

"Hmm, yes. That could pose a problem. However, it'll take her a while to learn and get used to the changes."

"They are headed to the Witch of Endor, I'm suspecting."

Dee sighed almost affectionately. "Flamel can be so predictable sometimes."

**oOo**

Scathach turned around in her seat and watched Hecate's Shadowrealm fade away as they drove out of its magical boundaries. Its reality-screen thickened as they drove farther and farther away. Now it seemed just like any other ordinary forest without a fairy-tale-like realm in it.

She couldn't help but feel rather sad. Hecate wasn't a close friend, but they knew each other. Recently, her home had been burning, and now Dee was freezing it.

"It'll be fine," Nicholas Flamel assured her.

Scatty gazed down at Sophie. She was lying fast asleep on her lap. When they got past Bastet and the Morrigan, Sophie was so exhausted from the overuse of her aura that she collapsed. She had to be carried inside the vehicle.

But she did well, protecting everyone when no one else could.

Dee wasn't intending to pursue them anytime soon, so that was good news. That meant they could slow down a little bit and process what happened.

The English Doctor had attempted a raid on Hecate's Shadowrealm, and now he was to destroy it.

"She won't be fine," Scatty said. "We caused this, Flamel."

"I know," said the Alchemyst, closing his eyes wearily. "Hopefully when get meet up with the Mistress of Air, we can finally get Sophie some help."

"Who's the Mistress of Air?" Josh asked from his place at the helm.

He was the designated driver of the group. Flamel had never gotten—nor will he ever—get a driver's licence. Scatty was a fighter. Sophie was unconscious. He was the only one left. Truthfully, he wasn't allowed to lawfully drive, but he had some experience. He did just drive them away from a herd of sanguine crows recently. That was enough to get some legitimate permission.

"The Witch of Endor," Flamel clarified. "She lives in Ojai."

"And we're going to see her."

"We don't have any other choice—unless you want your sister to suffer even more."

Josh bit his lip. He didn't want to impose anything on Sophie. But he felt as if she had the better end of the bargain. Having an aura and magical abilities was amazing. He was sort of jealous he couldn't do the same. She seemed so much like a super hero when she saved them from Dee and Bastet and the Morrigan. He wanted to know the same exhilarating feeling.

"Is she okay?" he asked.

There was also the anxiety that came with not being able to be with his own sister to comfort her when she needed it. He couldn't do much of comforting recently. Only sit there and drive.

"She's fine," said the Alchemyst. "Just hurry."

Josh stepped on the gas.

"The Witch of Endor…" he murmured.

* * *

><p>"Okay, who are you?" Edward demanded.<p>

He wasn't the stupid, immature kid he used to be. Maybe two years ago, he would transmute his auto-mail and hold it to the throat of his offender and perhaps beat the answers out of them.

And even though Dora's identity was an uncertainty, she still appeared—in his eyes—to be an old, frail woman that seemed clinically insane.

But she knew Equivalent Exchange quite well, something that baffled Edward even more. He had no choice but to go by her bargain.

"Tell me you haven't guessed," Dora said. "You didn't at least try to guess who I am."

Edward stared at the old woman. Suddenly, information flashed through his mind—information he never had before. The Gate was once again deciding that he was an idiot and needed help, so it decided to give him a piece of utter mind rape. If only the knowledge of languages, geographic locations, and technology wasn't enough . . .

_The Witch of Endor._

_Mistress of Air._

_Zephaniah. _

_Wife of Mars. _

_Elder sister of Prometheus. _

_Mother of Romulus and Remus. _

_Grandmother of Scathach and Aoife._

_Foresight of Future._

Edward shook his head loose of the information. His head pounded painfully. At least he wasn't in risk of passing out altogether. Most of it was useless crap anyway.

"Sorry, I have no idea who you are."

"At least you're asking the right questions now," Dora commented. "Yes, _who_ am I. I doubt you'd understand _what_ I am."

"Try me," Edward challenged.

Dora smiled. "I've seen you—seen you in my future. There are countless futures, you know. It always depends on the decisions you make at the moment. These eyes"—she tapped the mirrors in her eye sockets—"I traded them in for this foresight."

"So when you turn to the mirrors, you're basically seeing what they reflect, right?" Edward deduced.

Dora's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. "You're less dumb than I thought," she remarked.

Edward rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks."

"Don't roll your eyes. It's impolite."

"So you could see me this whole time. What I did—everything. Even when you pretended you were just some blind woman."

Dora nodded. "It was a good show, wasn't it?"

"I'm not impressed," Edward said immediately.

"All right, how about this? I'm not who I say I am. My real name is Zephaniah. Most call me the Witch of Endor. I'm—"

"A goddess," finished Edward. "Yes, I figured it out the same time I realized why you have a mirror shop."

Dora was surprised yet again. "How can you possibly know that?"

Edward sat against a table. "It's rather simple, actually. I ran into another goddess before—the Morrigan. Judging from you expression, you know her. Secondly, you may be able to see my future, but that's only if it's linked to yours. You cannot see my past before you've met me. The only reason why you 'coincidentally' bumped into me the time I got off the train was because I was destined to meet you, but you didn't know me beforehand. Thirdly, and I'm only saying this because you won't tell me, the reason why you seem to know it was going to rain tonight is because you have such a foresight. Right. So I totally answered my own question intended for you. Thanks for nothing."

Dora blinked many times.

"And if you don't mind, I'll continue to call you Crazy Old Lady."

"Well, now that you know," the Witch of Endor said, snapping out of her stupor, "you answer my questions."

"Sorry," Edward said. "That's not how Equivalent Exchange works. You see, I answered my own questions, thus I owe you nothing. You can't blackmail me with my own philosophy. I'm rather impressed with your attempt."

"Are you a genius?"

"Not certified. But yes," said the blond, without a trace of arrogance.

The Witch of Endor sighed. "Right, yes. Could you, perhaps, not sit there?"

Edward got up and walked over to the cash register counter, sitting cross-legged on top of it. "All better?" he said.

"No."

"Too bad."

"You still owe me _some_ answers," the Witch continued.

"No, I don't. In fact, the information you want from me is petty compared to what I wanted from you. I don't think you need to know much."

"Where have you been?"

"Outside."

"Obviously. I meant specifically."

"Shopping."

"_Where_ shopping?"

"In a store."

The Witch of Endor resisted the urge to scream savagely and release a horrible hurricane at the boy.

Edward, on the hand, looked like he was thoroughly enjoying her frustration.

"Okay," he said. "Now you've got your answers."

"Not quite—"

"Now you need to answer mine. It's about how you know Equivalent Exchange."

The Witch took a deep breath, ready to answer, but Edward cut her off.

"In addition, I hope you obey the rules correctly. If you somehow manage to twist it because you are a non-believer, I won't hesitate to deconstruct _this entire fucking store._"

"Language," was all the Witch of Endor could manage to say.

Then, with all respectable courtesy, Edward motioned for her to continue.

"I read it in a textbook when I was young—"

"Holy smokes. You must be at least a billion years old."

"I may be a goddess, but I do not take well to insults on my age."

Edward simply smiled.

"As I was saying, I read it in an old textbook. It talked about an ancient race that could bend the earth into any shape they wanted via something called Alchemy. They used Equivalent Exchange as a principle law."

"Is that all?"

"There wasn't much. Even my father did not know the full details."

"It seems all legit to me. Accept that the Alchemy I use isn't quite like the Alchemy of this earth."

"Are you what the book talks about?"

"I'm doing the asking here," Edward replied coldly.

Too many memories resurfaced that he didn't want to recall. If only Alchemy hadn't existed at all. If only he didn't know any of its knowledge. He would never be here, he would have never lost his mother, he would have never lost Al…

"Anyway, on to the finale," continued Edward. "The _al-che-mist_ bit."

"Oh, that?" The Witch stared at a mirror thoughtfully. "Hmm…"

"Let me guess," he said, suddenly weary, "you saw that in my future."

"Yes, there was a strange white being. How'd you know?"

Edward ran a hand over his face. "Don't worry. I've been seeing Him a lot these days. It's totally normal."

"You don't seem particularly worried I know that."

"Of course not. I'm just particularly _pissed_ about it."

"You are a rather strange but interesting young man."

"Wait until you see what I can do."

"Yes, what _can_ you do?"

"Got anything in exchange for that information?"

"Not…really."

"Then I'm not telling you."

"You're not normal, that's what."

"What gave you that idea?"

The Witch Endor thought about it. "First of all, I agreed to tell you about myself. No mortal can just know about us gods, understand?"

"But humans have been worshipping gods for millennia."

"Not anymore."

"Can't you just, you know, look into my future and know what I am?"

"The future is complicated, dear Edward. I can't just choose what I see. They either come unexpectedly or show up because somebody has made a decision that sparked a new course of the impending future."

"Ugh." Edward lowered his head into his hands. "My brain hurts. Can we talk tomorrow? I need sleep."

The Witch huffed, but relented. "All right. But tomorrow, you will owe me by doing chores."

"When did I agree to this?"

"You don't. I need you to pick up some things from the hardware store. You also need to count the shop's inventory. We're also expecting guests tomorrow. Please sweep up and wipe the place down. Thank you."

Edward was too tired to care. He hopped down from the counter and picked up his duffel bag, shuffling to his crappy room. Then he slammed the door shut. A second later, the door fell off its hinges and flat onto the ground.

Grumbling, he got back up, clapped his hands, fixed the door, and ungracefully tumbled onto his bed. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep. But it wasn't derived of all dreams.

_It felt like his heart was being wrenched out of his chest._

_He could picture a dozen sparks going out. Their flames became dimmer and dimmer until they disappeared completely. _

_An astral branch that connected all these flames was crumbling, falling to pieces. The aching in his chest thudded violently against his insides. He wanted to reach out and put the pieces back together. But he was only a spectator. He couldn't do anything._

_His dream warped. He saw those flames turn into gates. Not just ordinary iron gates. But THE Gate. He saw his own standing behind him. The other Gates were situated around him in a perfect circle, like an alchemical Stonehenge. _

_His Gate was not longer incomplete and blank. True to his ability to perform Alchemy, his Gate was once again complete. The other Gates were different. Scribed on them were remnants—whispers of secrets. _

_He took a single step forward and suddenly every Gate except his own started to deconstruct. Just like the flames, they were disappearing._

_He screamed. Why was this happening?_

_Not again…_

Edward woke up with his chest burning. His eyes seared with warm liquid. Had he been crying?

He wheezed. It was so hard to breath.

Why is it, it seemed, that a dozen worlds had just collapsed? It felt so heart-wrenching.

* * *

><p><strong>Poor Ed. It sucks to have the gift of feeling collapsing Shadowrealms. Alphonse also has the tendency of feeling souls. That kind of sucks too, especially when he meets gods. Their souls are HUGE, and if the presence is too overwhelming, Al can pretty much faint.<strong>

**Anyway, like it? I know it's shorter than the other chapters, but if you read it at its own pace, it's actually a lot longer. Just take into the account of how fast the characters talk. Remember to review with the new review thingy. The site seems to be updating a lot faster than previous years. It has so many new things . . . I haven't used any of them. Hehe. **


	13. XIII: Defying The Law Of

**Here is the next chapter! Technically it's Chapter 12, but in total that's 13. I'm compelled to update this on July 13, but . . . I'm not going to risk it. I'm probably going to jinx myself doing that, so, yeah. I don't want my mother's back broken or anything. I hope you understand. It's not that I'm superstitious. I just love my mom. =]**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SINF and/or FMA. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>He was aware of red light blinding his eyes. When he thought again, he realized the red light was the sunlight searing through his closed eyelids. If this was real, then he had to be awake.<p>

That was strange. He hadn't been awake for a while now. In all honesty, he couldn't tell how long he'd been asleep for. It felt like a few hours, maybe—days, even? It didn't seem _that_ long.

But if Alphonse had any experience from being knocked unconscious, which was plenty, then that meant he was unconscious for a longer period of time than he thought, possibly a few days. Which wasn't good.

Alphonse opened his eyes—bad idea. The sun was much brighter than he thought. He shut them again and tried sitting up. There was a soft cushiony feeling under him. It was smooth and light, like a bed. No, it had to have been a bed. What else would he lie in?

He tried opening his eyes again, this time halfway to help his pupils adjust to the sudden increase of light. He couldn't notice much—just the fact that he must have been asleep for _days_ if his eyes were so used to darkness.

Alphonse rubbed his eyes. A few minutes in and he could see so much more.

It came a bit slow and hazy at first, but he recognized the setting. The skylight, the multi-coloured windows, the sounds of church hymns going on below...This was the church where Joan of Arc and the Comte de Saint-Germain resided in. They must have brought him back here after—

He couldn't recall. What _did_ happen?

Alphonse swung his legs over the side of the bed, stepping down and wincing as the floorboards beneath his feet creaked precariously. This church was mighty old, and building a stronghold above a church that old was dangerous. Both Joan and Saint-Germain were convinced that a hideout like this was safe, but Alphonse wasn't so sure. Their Leygate was on the _roof_ for Truth's sake.

"Joan!" he called out as he searched around the complex. "Francis! Are you guys here?"

He had a few questions to ask, but it didn't look like anybody was home. Alphonse decided to go downstairs and see what was going on.

The floors were even quakier than they appeared. They creaked and groaned louder than the floorboards. Alphonse was afraid they'd collapse at that minute. It was more likely that both Joan and Saint-Germain never used the stairs; it didn't look like they left home often.

Alphonse tried his best to tiptoe down. The stairs tried their best to give off his presence. By the time he got down, he figured the entire church procession would be spooked about a 'ghost' and 'avenging spirit' that could not seem to rest.

Mentally, he hoped that he wouldn't be seen, wishing for a cloak that concealed his existence. Surprisingly, he felt a slight tingling sensation, and then a dark veil suddenly enveloped him whole. Alphonse blinked a few times to see if it wasn't a trick of the light, but he was, in fact, encased in a blanket of shadow.

"That's so strange…" he murmured.

"You may be able to use your aura to conceal yourself, but that doesn't mean people can't hear you."

Alphonse whirled around and bumped into Joan.

She smiled wanly. "_Bonjour_, Alphonse. You look well."

"I don't feel well."

"No. I was kidding. You look like—well, hell."

"Maybe you shouldn't mention that word in a church."

"I know the real gods, Alphonse," Joan said, "and they do not care. They are the ones that implement the hell."

"Yeah, I never believed in God."

"Bad experience?"

"More like brother's influence."

Something darkened in Joan's eye, and Alphonse inclined to drop the subject.

"You shouldn't be up," she said.

"What do you mean? I was asleep for a while. How long was I out for?"

"18."

"18 what? 18 hours?"

"18 _days_, Alphonse."

The young alchemist leaned against the stairs for support. "W-What? Eighteen days? But that's—that's too long. I can't have been…"

"You were severely exhausted, Alphonse. But there's no need to concern yourself with that matter. Nothing has happened these several few days you were asleep. Things have gone on just fine."

"Where's Francis?" asked Alphonse.

"He's okay, too. He just went out to the market."

"And what…what happened?"

"During the time you were unconscious?"

"No. Yes. Both that and the time before I fell unconscious."

Joan frowned. "Are you telling me you don't remember?"

"No," Alphonse answered with growing horror. "Seriously. What happened to me?"

The Frenchwoman sighed. "It's a long story, Alphonse. I'll make you some tea, and I'll tell you about it."

Alphonse nodded his head numbly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That sounds good."

"And by the way"—Joan placed a hand on Alphonse's shoulder and his aura cloak immediately dissipated—"I can teach you how to control your aura, if you want."

Alphonse appeared majorly confused. "Aura…? Wait, hold on. How can I have a—"

"Over tea, Alphonse."

"But you said before—"

"_Non_. Over tea."

"Okay," Alphonse relented, though the fact that he was missing large amounts of important memories was killing him.

Joan led him back upstairs and into the kitchen. She sat him down and set to work making the tea. Alphonse obediently stayed quiet, though the jerking of his leg and the _tap-tap-tapping_ of his finger on the dining table were telltale signs that he was over his head in anxiety.

He tried to occupy his racing mind by glancing at random objects around the room, but all he managed to look like was paranoid. If it was some other person seeing this, they would come to conclusion that this boy here was mentally unwell.

After Joan fixed the tea, she placed the cup before Alphonse and sat down in front of him, lacing her fingers together.

"Alphonse," she ordered, "drink your tea."

"I didn't even want tea," Alphonse responded.

Joan sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily. "I assume all you want is to know what transpired before we brought you back here."

"Yes, please."

"This is a really long story," the Frenchwoman warned.

"I know."

"_D'accord._ I'll just tell you the short version of it."

And so Joan of Arc set forth to telling the tale of what happened in the Catacombs of Paris. Of course, there were so many important points and details that she didn't leave out much of anything in the end—the long story stayed a long story. But it didn't matter to Alphonse.

As Joan got to the part of his near-death encounter with Mars' minions, Alphonse suddenly remembered all the flashbacks that came with it.

"What happened after that?" he asked.

"Well, Mars Ultor 'deemed you worthy' and decided to Awaken you."

"And it worked," Alphonse said with surprise, more to himself than her.

"Yes."

"I remember everything," the boy said. "I passed out after… I felt this huge surge of energy, Joan. I felt so alive and powerful. But then, at the same time, I felt like I was being swallowed by a dark pit like…just like…" Alphonse clutched his head in pain. "Oh, Truth…" he murmured.

Joan reached forward and touched his forearm. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "I'd never thought memories could hurt, that's all. At least, not in the physical way."

"Your memories are painful to you?"

"Emotionally. I bet after living as long as you have, you have all sorts of painful memories."

"I do," Joan admitted. "Now, drink your tea."

Alphonse started shaking his head. "You and your tea," he grumbled.

"After all that trouble I went through to make you a loving beverage…"

The young alchemist sighed with exasperation. Were all women this manipulative? He knew his mother was never like that. Well maybe when she was trying to persuade Edward to drink his milk, which never actually worked out…ever.

But he did pick up his cup and drink the tea. The moment he had a mouthful of it, he immediately spat it back out, executing a perfect spit-take. After centuries of training herself, Joan effortlessly evaded the spray by dodging to the side. Oh, the days when her agility proved useful—life-or-death situations included!

"What the hell is in this?" Alphonse demanded.

"Tea," Joan answered flatly.

"Okay…I'll ask again: What the hell is this?"

"Oolong tea."

"Can you give me something legitimately English, please?"

Joan sighed. "None of you like variety. Men these days… Not even Francis likes the oriental tea."

"I really can't imagine why," Alphonse shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "This tastes like crap to me."

"Alphonse." Joan gave him a flat, pointed look. In a dry tone, she said, "Have you ever really tasted crap before?"

"Actually—"

"Don't answer that. I don't want to know how you even came to doing something like that."

"My teacher's very…effective when it comes to her punishments."

"You have one committed teacher."

Alphonse smiled hollowly. "Yes. She was. I miss her very much."

"She's dead?"

Alphonse gave the Frenchwoman a look that said, _Do you even have to ask?_

"Right," Joan said, dropping the subject. "Anyway—oh, right, yes. I've just remembered. I have a proposition for you."

Alphonse raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Now that you have an aura, I want to teach you how to utilize it properly."

"As in…"

"I want to teach you the fundamentals of magic."

Alphonse stared. "…_Magic._ You can't be serious."

"I am. How else will you put your aura to use while practicing how to control it?"

"Uhm, Alchemy?"

"Alphonse." Joan gave him a pained look. "I would love to teach you what you're comfortable with already, but there aren't many Alchemy experts out there that we have on hand at the moment. Magic is easier than Alchemy. It'll be easier once you have learned the former."

"But I'm comfortable with Alchemy first—it _was_ my first before magic. Look, please, are you sure there aren't any Alchemy practitioners?"

"I can only think of one," Joan said. "That's Flamel. And as I've told you before, we can't find him. He's disappeared."

Alphonse hung his head in disappointment.

"Alchemy is complicated, Alphonse. It's probably not what you're expecting."

"Maybe not," Alphonse had to admit, reluctantly. Who knew how different this side's Alchemy was compared to his side of the Gate?

"It's fine," Joan reassured, smiling. "You're immortal, now. You have literally forever. We'll take this slowly with magic first, and after you can stop flaring your aura like you're doing now, we can go ahead and find you an Alchemy teacher. After all, Flamel can't hide forever. He usually shows up every decade or so after Dee manages to find him. The Englishman never seems to catch Nicholas, however."

Alphonse was quiet for a long time. And then he said, "So a black aura, huh? Is it anything special?"

"Oh, it's special all right. Black is the rarest—perhaps most powerful of all auras there is. I can tell magic will come easily to you. With your huge reservoir, I'm sure you barely need to take a breather between sessions."

Despite the obvious compliment, Alphonse wasn't motivated much with this revelation.

"Of course," Joan added, "there are the Gold and Silver Twins. Gold and silver auras alone are pretty powerful—not as quite as powerful as yours—but when the right two are together, they are practically gods. Very powerful, very dangerous."

"I never thought I'd gain immortality so soon…I thought it was impossible without the Philosopher's Stone."

Joan gave him an odd look. "Philosopher's Stone? That's a myth, Alphonse."

"Nothing's a myth," the boy replied. "Ed and I took a trip to Britain once. We ran into a guy that thought he could cheat death. He even had the Philosopher's Stone in his possession. The thing was, it couldn't grant immortality. Not really—just incredible riches. The Stone was Flamel's. In their history books, Nicholas Flamel had created the Stone."

"Then the real secret of immortality has to come from the Codex," Joan said. "It's what Flamel really uses. The Philosopher's Stone was probably a defect of the true Elixir of Life he failed to concoct."

"Probably," Alphonse said. "Genuine Philosopher's Stones are hard to make anyway."

"Why's that?"

Alphonse purposefully ignored her question. "I'm still not quite sure about your proposition on teaching me magic," he said instead. "How about we just stick to controlling my aura?"

Joan nodded. "Okay. Whatever you want."

"Right. So when do we start?"

* * *

><p>Edward woke to a whirlwind tearing apart his fail of a room.<p>

Like, _literally_ a whirlwind.

He bolted out of bed and pushed through the tornado, forgetting his shoes as he did so. He ran outside and yelled, "Is this your idea of waking me up in the morning?"

Dora—the Witch of Endor—wasn't there, but he could imagine her smiling behind the shadows.

"Well, it worked!" he shouted. "Now can you _fucking make the tornado STOP?_"

Obediently, the whirlwind subsided. Various objects that it had picked up during its maelstrom dropped dead to the floor—and that was pretty much everything in the room. Edward's bed toppled onto its side. The small crappy wardrobe slammed onto the ground—upside down. The one chair in the room teetered a bit before falling over.

Edward growled in an incoherent savage tongue before storming back inside his room and straightening everything up.

He had probably slept—oh, a minute or two as the tornado raged before he noticed its existence. His clothes were a crumpled, rumpled mess. He only managed to pick up one change of them, so he didn't have a lot of options to choose from. The 21st Century had something called a 'Washing Machine'. Perhaps he could find one later.

Edward rolled up the sleeves of dress shirt and got down on the floor, placing his hands under his bed, and then with a giant heave, he flipped it right-side-up. He walked over to the chair and kicked it upward. He looked at the wardrobe and shook his head dismissively.

"I don't even want to deal with you," he growled.

It was a while before he found his shoes. He didn't know how they managed it, but they ended up in the garbage bin. Jamming them onto his foot, he went about searching for his other things which were scattered about in the room. He located his backpack first, and then proceeded to pick up everything else.

So far, he wasn't having a great start to the day.

The room the Witch provided for him didn't have much of anything to begin with. There were no personal items or small things. But because of her whirlwind tantrum, the mirror fell down and shattered all over the floor. They were in such tiny fragments that it was hard to pick them all up in a short amount of time.

Edward set his backpack down and got on his knees, carefully examining the floor with his head turned sideways. He pushed his long hair out of his face. He couldn't seem to find his rubber band—it got lost somewhere, and he was too lazy to search for it. He didn't have the right latex material to transmute a new one, something else he would have to ask for later.

"You look even more like a girl today." The Witch of Endor was watching from the doorway.

Edward scowled at her. "Can you shut up for a second? I'm trying to concentrate."

"Concentrate on what? Finding dust?"

"Seeing if every piece of glass is accounted for. I'm running a diagnostic."

The Witch raised her eyebrows.

Edward shot her a dull look. "It's Alchemy," he said.

Dora was immediately showing interest.

"Don't get your hopes up," Edward continued. "This is the simplest of Alchemy. I'm not going to show you my capabilities anytime soon."

"Just don't cut yourself, Idiot Boy."

The alchemist rolled his eyes. "Need I remind you that this is all _your_ fault. Great tactic, by the way. You nearly killed me."

The Witch smiled. "Why thank you. I do try."

"And I'm honoured. Now be quiet."

"What's a diagnostic, exactly?" she asked, ignoring his wishes.

Edward simply sighed, but he did explain. Sort of. "Humankind cannot gain anything without giving something up in return. That is the Law of Equivalent Exchange. That is Alchemy. I'm trying to fix the mirror, and to do that, I need all pieces of the original. Or else, I'll have to substitute it with more materials of the same composition. But that's easy to access. You have tons of mirrors."

"So why fix it?"

The blond was silent for a while. He continued to run his hands over the floor, trying to keep from cutting himself.

"I feel entitled to it, that's all," he finally said. "Don't worry; the diagnostic's almost done."

Edward clapped his hands and laid them onto the floor, blocking the flow of the earth's energy by keeping his Gate closed. He wasn't going to start transmutation just yet. He didn't know why or why he had to, but suddenly he found himself explaining the process to Dora.

She was going to find out someday anyway.

"Normally with transmutation circles, the diagnostic is done with a circle. The glow represents that process. Then there's the lightning—basically it's the friction, or static electricity, that gives off when the atoms are rubbing against each other, creating into some new shape. You wouldn't really understand.

"That's transmutation. If you break it apart into two separate processes, that would be deconstruction and then reconstruction. Without the circle, however, Alchemy is a bit different. Since the mirror is already broken, only reconstruction is necessary."

"I have never heard of this," the Witch remarked. "With all the years I have on you, I should know this."

"This type of Alchemy is not available in this world. Probably because your _aura_—or whatever it is—is somehow blocking the energy flow of the earth. Where I come from… Well. Magic doesn't exist."

"You don't have an aura."

"And people seem to be deathly afraid of that fact."

"It is dangerous for someone as powerful as you. So you really draw your reserves from the earth?"

"I told you: You wouldn't understand. Everyone here with an aura is unable to perform Alchemy. That's all. You're just all so dependant on your own energies."

"That maybe be true, but—"

"I'm done," Edward said swiftly. "I'm afraid you'll have to stand back for a bit. Close the door behind you."

"I can't see this?"

"You could, but…if something goes wrong, I don't want to have to transmute you along with me, too."

The Witch of Endor locked gazes with the boy. His golden eyes seemed unusually haunted, almost cynical. She finally agreed, backing out and closing the door. But she stayed outside, waiting to rush in there if anything were to go wrong.

Inside the room, Edward watched the dust float around in the sunlight streaming through the open window. Inhaling as if taking his final breath, Edward opened his inner Gate, letting the energy flow, an alchemical equation bright in his mind.

He held his hands inches above the floor in front of him, where he wanted the pieces of the broken mirror to assemble.

His hands glowed, and lightning flew, arcing wildly around the room. Slowly, as if the events of the mirror shattering reversed and rewound, the shards of the mirror fitted, coming together and sealing in the gaps between each piece. Edward made it his priority to keep the alchemical reaction under control, to not let it get out of hand so that he'd end up transmuting the entire room and who-knows-what-else.

From outside, Zephaniah watched from the crack under the door. The blue glow of the Alchemy going on inside was so intense, the light could have easily gone farther than five yards. After the surreal, almost supernatural, glow left, the Witch of Endor bursted into the room.

The first thing she noticed was the mirror.

It was _whole_ again, and looking more new than ever. She knew, because she was staring right at it.

Then she saw the reflection of Edward in the mirror. He was standing with both hands in his pockets, staring at the mirror and at _her_ reflection. He was watching her, she realized, like she was seeing him.

The wind blew through the window. Like her whirlwind before, it circled around the room—albeit slightly calmer and nicer. Except, even though it was the summertime, the wind felt unnaturally chill.

The Witch of Endor wanted to close the window, but Edward turned and stared at it.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't have all the shards. I had to borrow some elements from that window over there."

"Elements…?" She didn't realize she'd let it slip out.

"Yeah. You know, carbon, iron, zinc, silicon, phosphorus, even a bit of sulphur—they're glass. It's melted down from sand, which are tiny pieces of rock, and rock is essentially metal, so—"

"I get it, Edward."

"Right. Sorry." Edward sighed. "These days, unfortunately, all anyone's giving up in return is either money or time. You never see anyone giving up an eye for an eye. Because it doesn't make sense. Time I get, but…money? They're just slips of paper. How could they _amount_ to anything? I mean, take a hospital for example. They save people all the time. To do that, they need money and the tools. Essentially, that's like saving a life with money. It can't be that equivalent…" He caught Dora giving him a strange look. "Sorry," he apologized again. "I tend to ramble sometimes."

"No, it's fine. It's just weird hearing that from you."

"Me, of all people, right? I know the feeling."

The alchemist picked up the newly made mirror and propped it up onto the wall again. He turned towards Dora.

"Come," commanded the Witch. "It's time for your duties."

Edward raised an eyebrow, but didn't object. He followed her out into the main room of the shop.

"So what do we do today?" he said.

"_We_ don't do a thing. _You_, however, are going to start by counting all the stocks I have, and then sweeping the place up. I told you we have guests coming—around midday, so you really need to hurry. Afterwards, go down to the hardware store. I need you to install a few things for me. Oh, right, and on your way, do buy yourself a new hair tie. I don't want anyone to think my employee's a transvestite."

Edward glared at her with the intensity of what the midget Fullmetal Alchemist could only manage. "First of all, I'm not your_ employee_. During my time, being gay was an okay thing to do, as well as the decision to change one's gender."

"No need to get all technical. That was a joke."

"Hawkeye cracked better jokes than you," Edward muttered bitterly.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"Uh huh."

Edward tried to change the subject by taking out his State Alchemist's watch. He popped it open, staring at the time for a good few seconds.

"The hell?" he said, squinting at it. He then snapped it shut, lifting his gaze and glaring at the crazy lady that 'employed' him.

"Is something wrong?" she inquired.

"Yes. Yes, there is. Can you tell me if you don't find anything wrong with _waking me up 5 AM in the fucking morning_?"

The Witch of Endor shrugged. "It's not that early, Idiot Boy. I told you that our guests were coming during midday, correct? Doing inventory and cleaning my shop will give you just enough time for the shops to open."

"_I don't see how you won't freaking do it!_"

Edward knew he couldn't possibly murder the woman—she was far more skilled than he was. Therefore he had to listen. Which sucked. A lot.

Swearing in several different languages including Amestrian and Xingnese, Edward tucked his watch away and grabbed a nearby broom, violently sweeping the floor like a madman while he continued to spout colourful words in all directions.

The Witch resisted the urge to smirk. However, as she listened to the child's words, she realized that some she could not understand. The language wasn't familiar to her at all.

This boy wasn't just from another time like she'd suspected… He may have been from another world—he may have even escaped from a neighbouring Shadowrealm.

Why were those golden eyes so familiar, suddenly?

* * *

><p>About four hours later, Edward Elric was finally done playing maid, and he was hoping he'd never have to go back to it ever again.<p>

He'd finished the goddamned inventory, he'd completed scrubbing every inch of the fucking shop, and he'd suffered not being able to break everything in his whole bloody line of sight. Breaking something felt like a good idea at the moment.

Sadly, the Witch would just make him clean it all up again. He would not go through the trauma a second time.

For some odd reason, he had the feeling that the Witch of Endor was just doing all this to troll him. It sounded pretty legit.

The inventory job seemed useless. I mean, all Dora had were mirrors in the shop, safe for a few trinkets. All Edward should have done was scribble a random number down on the clipboard and be done with it.

And it seemed like the shop itself had the uncanny ability to get dirty every hour, with or without the scheduled cleaning.

All in all, he'd come to the conclusion that the Witch of Endor didn't have a life, and didn't do anything with the remaining life that she did have, and that he did everything for absolutely nothing. Brilliant.

"Just be glad she didn't tell you to clean the back rooms," Edward mumbled to himself. _Oh, shoot. Don't jinx it_.

Now he was lying under the space of a counter he managed to create for himself. He swore himself into an oath of moody silence, to not talk to Dora unless he had to. To add to his foul mood, the space under the counter was cramped. A bunch of boxes previously occupied the space, and he didn't have much else space to move them to make space for himself.

It was tough, giving her the silent treatment.

He heard scuffling suddenly, and in his peripheral vision, the Witch of Endor had come around, asking once again for his much-too-gracious-for-a-person-like-her services.

"Get up, boy," she said, kicking his leg. "The store's open. Hurry and get going."

"Can you say please and thank you for once?" Edward demanded. "Can't you be at least a _little bit_ grateful for all these things I'm doing for you?"

"Why? So it'll fill your already big-enough ego?"

That one shut him up.

Did he really have such a big ego? Sometimes, maybe, to torment his enemies.

But we can all pretty much agree that Edward is selfless when it comes to doing favours for others.

"I'll get going," he muttered.

Without another sign of protest, he got up and left the shop—remembering to pick up the wad of cash the Witch had set out for him—and then promptly slamming the door shut behind him. But he did it harder than expected, and he ended up wincing and apologizing to no one in particular for a while before crossing the street.

He wasn't _that_ angry…was he? He did some things in his life he wasn't proud of, and having a giant ego to match that of Colonel Mustang's was just so ridiculous, he would never even _think_ of it being possible. All things inside, he was being sincere when he asked the Witch if she'd be a little more polite, if she'd stop belittling him and calling him 'Idiot Boy'.

Unless, all gods and goddesses were like this—thinking they were better than everyone else. They probably were. In fact, Edward deduced, when Dora was delivering her little charming speech about his not-small ego, she was being a hypocrite and trying to diminish her own humungous ego. Like it wasn't obvious enough. He couldn't wait to 'suggest' this idea to her.

The tales about gods being wise and knowing what they're doing…bullshit. Even if the Witch could see into the future.

Ah, screw it. He had eccentric stuff to buy, tons of more nonsensical tasks to accomplish, and a whimsical Washing Machine to track down.

* * *

><p><strong>I personally think the ending's kind of cute. I love how Ed finds 21st Century technology strange.<strong>

**Also, this chapter's shorter than the last one in characters, but in pages it's longer because I made tons of paragraphs with little words. :D**

**Tell me what you thought about this chapter!**


	14. XIV: Crossroads of Fate PT 1

**Chapter 13 is finally here! Is it just me, or are the chapters getting shorter and shorter? Shorter in words, maybe. But lengthwise . . . perhaps not. You'll notice how we've come from three different point-of-views in the story to two, after Flamel and crew join up with Dora and Ed. I sense a great battle coming on . . . in two chapters, maybe. If I've got nothing to write on Alphonse's end, I'll dedicate the entire next chapter to Ed's storyline. Then you'll really get to see him fight (HINT: With advanced Alchemy, too!) It may be a little long, though. Bear with me; I think about next week's chappie for, like, three days, and then I start writing the next chapter. Ed has some scores to settle, too, so next chapter may or may not be longer than the rest. He's got a grudge towards a certain English doctor. But anyway,**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own SINF and/or FMA. **

* * *

><p>"Not yet," said Joan. "You're still too weak to move around, let alone start experimenting with your aura."<p>

Alphonse frowned indignantly. "I'm not weak. I feel perfectly fine."

"Says you. But once you start flaring that aura of yours, you're going to faint in a second. Let me also remind you that right now, you should be suffocating in your heightened senses. Mars has given you the ability to supress those senses, but you don't want to test that. If you suddenly turn them on, you may never be able to turn it off again. Do you recall what happened once you were Awakened?"

"I was . . . in pain," the boy answered reluctantly. "The air smelled putrid. The night was so clear. I could hear every little sound—it was louder than I thought. My mouth also tasted funny. I wanted to vomit. And my skin kept tingling, and it felt like my clothes weighed a ton on me."

Joan nodded, as if she was expecting that sort of answer. "Yes, exactly. Are you sure you want to go back to that?"

"No."

"Then bear with me, and rest. After a week or so, we can start."

"So, no magic?"

"None."

"No involuntary aura flaring?"

"No." Joan tilted her head. "Well, I suppose if it's involuntary, you can do it."

"I do have forever," mumbled Alphonse, still dazed by the mere idea of it.

Him, _immortal_. What was he going to do with the rest of his life?

"Joan," he said, "is it possible for me to remove my immortality whenever I want?"

"Yes," the Frenchwoman replied. "All you need to do is go back to the god that first Awakened you and have them take your immortality away. However, once they do, you'll start to age until you crumble into dust. Do you think you'll want to remove your immortality one day?"

"Maybe," Alphonse admitted. "Most desire longevity. But I think it's a curse. To live and never die . . . They don't know what they're asking for. I, for one, shouldn't be talking, but I feel like once you're old and wrinkled, you become wise enough to understand the full meaning of immortality, and promptly have something done about it."

"To have it removed, so that you can finally die," Joan concluded.

Alphonse nodded. "Everything in this world has an end. To pay the price of living is death."

"How old are you again?" she asked.

"Thirteen."

"I need to have a talk with your brother."

Alphonse smiled. "You can try. But then you'll probably end up asking to talk with our father."

"You boys sound like you've been exposed to living hell. How can you possibly know all that?"

"Like you said, we've seen hell. And it isn't pretty. You could say we're all living one now." Alphonse's smile faded. "Do you think . . . Do you think I'll ever see my brother again?"

"Alphonse . . ."

"I mean, what are the chances of me ever meeting Ed? He could be anywhere, at anytime. This planet is _huge_. I'll go places—I'll probably end up visiting every country until I meet him. I just want to know how long it'll take, Joan."

Joan of Arc sighed. "Oh, Alphonse, I wish I could help more. But you will meet him one day, I'm sure of that. You're destined to see him again. It's why you were given immortality."

Alphonse slumped forward, crestfallen.

"You have forever," she reminded him gently. "Once you live a few decades, you'll realize that a decade is pretty short. Time will past by in no time, and you'll see your brother again."

"Let's just hope it's on good terms," Alphonse muttered.

"Don't jinx it."

"I hate jinxes," said Francis, coming into the room with a bag of fresh groceries in his hand. "By the way, we're taking a trip to the Washington Stronghold. We need to check on Shakespeare. I fear he may have gotten too comfortable there."

"Shakespeare?" Alphonse said. "You mean _the_ Shakespeare?"

"William Shakespeare, that's him," said the count.

"Alphonse needs rest," Joan said to him. "Must it possibly be today?"

"Actually, I need to make sure he hasn't touched any of Dad's things," Alphonse said with concern. "He had some really important Alchemy formulas."

"Knowing Shakespeare, he probably trashed the place with his wild parties," Francis mumbled to himself.

"Parties?"

"Ignore him," Joan said, rolling her eyes. "Francis, dear, may I speak with you?"

"Yeah, sure."

Joan led her fiancé out of the kitchen, carefully making sure Alphonse couldn't hear them behind the wall.

"What's this about?" Saint-Germain wondered.

"Alphonse wants to learn Alchemy," said Joan. "Do you know where Flamel is?"

The count shook his head. "No. Should I? No one has seen him for years. But why do you bring this up now?"

"Alphonse wants to learn Alchemy _first_," Joan clarified. "Flamel is the only one who can teach him Alchemy. Except for Dee—but you know how that's impossible! He's already confused about the idea of being immortal, how he has an aura, and how he has to wait an unknown number of years to see his brother again. I want him to have this, Francis."

"Do you want me to call on Palamedes and go look for Nicholas?"

"His dogs would help a great bunch."

Francis nodded. "Right, then. I guess I'll leave the Washington trip to you. To England I go, I suppose."

He sounded so depressed and unenthusiastic that Joan laughed and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. "I'll wait for you to come back. Don't do anything too dangerous."

"Too dangerous?" the count echoed. "I'm the Master of Fire! What could possibly go wrong?"

Joan smiled and patted him on the arm. "Get going. I can take care of Shakespeare myself."

"That's who I'm worried about right now," said Francis, but he did go first, trailing up the stairs to the roof.

Joan watched him go, sighing. "Those will be your last words yet, _mon cher._" She re-entered the kitchen. Alphonse was still seated at the table, but he was looking at her somewhat accusingly.

"I thought this was just a rumour, but apparently the French don't know how to keep secrets," Alphonse stated. "Do any of you know how to whisper properly?"

The Frenchwoman reddened. "Alphonse," she scolded in angry French, "it's not polite to eavesdrop on people's conversations!"

"And it's not polite to talk behind my back!" the boy retorted in rapid German.

Joan sat down beside him and sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. The matter does concern you, but I just don't want you thinking about it too much. You have so many other things to be worried about—I just want some things off your mind for now."

"But you know I'll eventually have to address the matter, right?" Alphonse said.

"Yes."

Alphonse stood up. "Then let's address what we have to do at the moment. Let's see if William Shakespeare hasn't destroyed my dad's work."

"I'm concerned about whether or not he hasn't let any enemies through the Washington Leygates," Joan muttered.

Together, they headed upstairs onto the terrace, where the Paris Leygate was shimmering in the noon sun. Through the Leygates rippling surface, Alphonse could see the dull, grey room where the Leygates were placed in the Washington Stronghold. There was no sign of any other life. No Shakespeare.

Joan stepped up to pass through the gate first, but then she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

"Are you coming, Alphonse?" she asked.

The boy stood motionless, unmoving. He didn't _want_ to move. A strong wind blew through the rooftop. Alphonse swayed a moment before regaining his balance. The wind felt chilly—or was that just him?

"After what I went through the first time, I'm kind of wary, if that's all right with you," he said.

"That's fine. The first trips are always the worst."

"Do we have to go through the Leygate?"

Joan nodded. "Unless you want to travel for days via mono-planes."

"What about bi-planes?"

"They can't take the trip."

"Boat?"

"That will take a month, at the most."

"We do have forever."

"Your father's work probably doesn't."

"Good point." Alphonse huffed. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."

"I'll be on the other side to catch you," Joan said. She stepped into the Leygate and disappeared.

Alphonse waited a few seconds to make sure she touched down on the other side. And then her figure shimmered into view. She stood in the dull room, now as a part of it, like an image. She was motioning for him to come through, also.

He started shaking his head. "I just don't want to go through that again."

He knew she couldn't hear him, but she seemed to get the message. She gave a coaxing wave of her hand, mouthing that it's all going to fine.

Alphonse nodded, trusting her. Gulping, he put his leg through first.

It was the strangest feeling—like he could feel his muscle and bone literally warping and coming out the other side, except this void that his leg was in stretched far beyond the stars—perhaps even bouncing off of various points in the universe and finally arriving at the Washington Leygate the Paris one was connected to.

Last time, he pretty much fell through, so he couldn't experience what this feeling was. He felt lightweight. It was certainly a lot better than last time's trip.

Alphonse put his arm through next. There was the same sensation he felt with his leg.

Finally, he brought along his entire body. It was a different feeling from before. His whole body started deconstructing—not like what happened when he and Ed tried to bring their mother back. It was more pleasant, not like a billion black bodies grabbing your limbs and forcefully tearing them apart. This time, it was so brief that he barely registered what happened.

There was a slight pull that brought about the start of the deconstruction. Then his entire body became attracted to the other's particles, and soon he was riding the space at the speed of light.

If it was any other human, they would feel the same, but they won't know what the process was. They wouldn't even know it was Alchemy.

_Dad was right_, Alphonse thought as he emerged on the other side. _I thought that Leygates were far too similar to the Gate of Truth._

Joan didn't even need to catch him. Alphonse stepped down on the concrete floor, looking perfectly fine, although he had the expression of awe and confusion on his face.

"You're fine," Joan said, slightly surprised.

"I think it's the aura," responded Alphonse. "Or maybe . . . "

The Frenchwoman raised her eyebrows.

"Never mind." He shook his head. "Is Shakespeare here?"

"Oh, right." Joan started for the door—the only way out of the Gate Room. "I thought I heard some explosions."

"Explosions?" Alphonse repeated.

He frantically scrambled forward and wrenched open the doors himself before Joan even got there. He bolted down the hallway and disappeared into a room on the right, emerging again after a loud clattering sound. Alphonse backed himself up into the hallway on the opposite wall of the room he was in.

Joan reached him and peered into the room. It smelled of Shakespeare—which wasn't pleasant.

"The kitchen?" Joan said.

Alphonse nodded. "Why does it smell?"

"I think William's trying to cook."

"Hey, I thought I heard voices." William Shakespeare walked out of the kitchen and licked himself. His hair was burnt, his clothes were smoking, and black patches were smeared all over his body. "This place is awesome. Hohenheim has really done it this time. I've never seen these kinds of instruments before . . . " He trailed off.

"Apparently his cooking is not the only thing that smells," Alphonse remarked nasally, pinching his nose.

"Joan, right?" Shakespeare said to the Frenchwoman.

"William," she acknowledged.

The infamous writer and storyteller turned to Alphonse. "And who're you, kid? I've never seen you around before."

"You could say I live here," Alphonse replied, trying to keep his anger at bay, but of course it was starting to surface.

"Oh, sorry. You're going to have to replace the beakers and stove."

Alphonse must have been involuntarily flaring his aura because the room suddenly got darker. Joan shot an agitated look at the boy. She shook her head at him discreetly, laying a hand on his shoulder to stop his aura's advance before it could seriously materialize and strangle Shakespeare.

"Alphonse Elric," the alchemist introduced himself. "Van Hohenheim's son. I've inherited this stronghold after my father died. Please leave."

It was the way he said it that particularly terrified Shakespeare. His tone suggested forced cheeriness, but deep down anger boiled, emitting a dark, creepy aura (and I'm not just talking about his black aura). It was obvious of the point Alphonse was trying to make: Hi. This is my place now. Not yours. If you don't get out _right now_, I'll personally kick your ass out of here.

"Right," Shakespeare said, saluting. "I'll best be on my way."

"Yes," Alphonse said, smiling. "You do that."

"Goodbye then, Joan," he said to the warrior with all the gentlemanly air he could muster (while smelling and looking like he took a stroll through a sewer full of cow turd). "Goodbye, Mr. Elric. Till we meet again."

"I hope not," the alchemist responded, still smiling.

Funny. His smile seemed far too strained to be considered genuine.

"And do take a bath," Alphonse added.

"I don't believe in baths," Shakespeare replied, before disappearing down the way the Gate Room was.

"Are you okay, Alphonse?" Joan asked with concern, though deep down she was amused by the events that transpired.

"I'm okay _now_. But I really do have to check the things he's broken. Let's hope he didn't burn any of my father's research. I may be able to use that knowledge now that I can perform Alchemy."

"You head to his study, then. I'll be cleaning up the mess William's made in the kitchen."

"I don't even want to think about it," Alphonse said, trying not to cry. Oh, the effort he'd have to go through to replace everything. Every. Single. Goddamned. Thing.

He started down the hallway towards the front of the stronghold, where he'd previously found his father's (and to an extent, his brother's) journal. That was also where he'd seen all those sheets of paper covered with transmutation circles. Last time they were strewn all over the floor. Hopefully Shakespeare didn't touch anything.

To his luck—or perhaps Shakespeare just found drawings of weird circles to be boring—every sheet of paper seemed to be intact and accounted for, none of them burnt or ripped. He wasn't sure if they weren't moved or tampered with, but at least he had most of his father's research at hand.

Now, he just needed to make sense of it all.

Of course he wasn't considering the offer to live here in the stronghold. It was underground, musty, and just generally unhealthy to live in. He could stay with Joan and Francis for a while, learning magic in the process. But first he needed to make sure this stronghold was safe.

Other than watching it himself, he needed to activate some traps and fail-safes. After hearing who Dr. John Dee was and what he could do, Alphonse wasn't going to risk anything. He had to be safe about his choices from now on. He was in the war against the Dark Elders, whether he wanted to be or not.

His primary concern was still finding Edward, even though the search was more like a side-project. Who knew how long it would take to catch up to Ed's time? Perhaps a century. Or even ten years.

Cursing his luck, Alphonse went about the room, picking up all the stray papers on the floor. He stacked them in a neat pile on his father's study desk and laid them aside for later. He needed to consult the journal again.

There had to have been a reason for wanting to researching alchemy again, Alphonse knew that. But having his father missing for nearly his whole life was like a block in the middle of his path. He didn't know Hohenheim all that well—barely knew his history, to say the least—so it was safe to assume that Alphonse couldn't pretend to imagine what the man was thinking when he was going over this.

"He must have known alchemy was possible," Alphonse deduced.

For some reason, this world lacking the ability to make alchemy possible marked way for something even more brilliant—more in-depth details on the theory of alchemy. For years, chemists have tried alchemy, but with no such luck. That was because alchemy just wasn't possible.

But that didn't mean their theories weren't viable.

Alphonse couldn't begin to imagine what kind of theories this side of the Gate made up. They all made _sense_, too. He never thought of transmutation being done that way, nor did he ever really think about its connection to magic.

But these scientists of this world . . . they made the connection, despite the fact that they couldn't act on it.

That was why Hohenheim began researching again. With new eyes and information, various different branches of alchemy could be created from just one theory. This kind of thinking didn't exist back in his own world. Oh, if they knew . . . All alchemists alike would have the ability to easily start war as they would create peace.

But the million dollar question now was: What did Hohenheim find out?

As Alphonse skimmed over his father's journal, he started muttering excitedly.

"Oh, brilliant. That is just bloody brilliant . . . "

He then shut the notebook, hands leafing through the pile of transmutation circles he'd just picked up. He singled out a couple of them and then started comparing them. Satisfied with his selection, he started out marking various points on the circle with the pen—the important parts. The parts that set the circle out from the rest.

Joan then came into the room and without saying a word to announce her presence, Alphonse whirled around—seemingly aware of her existence—eyes shining with enthusiasm.

"What?" she asked. "What is it?"

"This changes everything," Alphonse said. "I never even _considered_ this to actually work, but maybe now . . . " He turned back around to devise on his own, leaving Joan out of it.

Suffice to say, she hated being in the dark.

"Can you tell me already?" she demanded, hands on her hips. "You can't keep it a secret forever, Alphonse."

"Sorry," the boy apologized, not sounding sorry at all. "I was just preoccupied with my thoughts. But this"—he held out the sheet of paper he was scrutinizing earlier—"this is like the cog to get the wheel moving. I can't believe I never thought of it myself. If I tried maybe, it could work."

Joan blinked. She didn't comprehend any of this or have any inkling as to why he was so thrilled.

"Wow," Alphonse muttered, fawning almost lovingly over the drawing of the circle. "My father was a genius."

"What in the world is that anyway?"

"A transmutation circle," he said, like it was obvious. "For alchemy. And this"—he pointed to the markings he'd done in red pen—"is a timer."

"A . . . what?"

"A timer!" Alphonse broke into a grin. "Can you believe it? I can't. A timer written _on_ the circle. It activates after the given time ends. It's like a bomb, Joan! It's like—it's like you place this circle in an area, write the time you want on it, and then afterwards—depending on the type of circle, let's say it was an explosion—it goes BOOM! You know I could really use this as a trap for unwanted guests."

"Alphonse . . . " Joan began, cautiously eyeing the look in the boy's eyes. It him the appearance of a small, ignorant child, much too eager for his own good. "That's nice and all, but I still don't get why you're all worked up over this."

"It's never been done!" Alphonse said. "That's the beauty of it! _That's_ what makes it so intriguing. And you know what? With Dad's incomplete research, I can finish it and even—maybe—figure out how to put a timer on a transmutation _without_ a circle."

Seeing the boy like this—all happy and impatient, especially after his period was depression, was enough to get Joan smiling. She was glad he was feeling much better. He had a purpose now with his immortality: To finish his father's study. Maybe that would also bring peace to his mind that his father left the world with something for his children.

"There's also . . . also one designed to activate when weight is placed on it," Alphonse said, floundering over another circle. He was beginning to ramble off to Joan now, but she didn't mind. "It works almost like the timer, except the person doesn't need to be an alchemist for it to activate, because—get this—it needs a _pre-activation_. The person who draws the circle does the pre-activation, and then the trap completely turns on and does whatever it's designed to do!

"Oh, and, I'm pretty sure there's a circle for airborne transmutation circles. It could come in handy. I think there's also another circle for long-ranged alchemy. Joan, I could spend my entire life in here and never leave."

"I hope you're not serious," Joan stated. "We have to go home eventually, you know."

"I know, I know," Alphonse said dismissively. "Can I bring some of this back with us?"

"Sure. But make sure you can carry it."

"Yes, _Madame_."

"Ah," Joan tutted. "Not _Madame_, yet."

Alphonse faced her fully, temporarily abandoning his work. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. "Really? Congratulations!"

"Thank you. We're still arguing over where we should get it done."

He turned back to reading his father's journal. "Paris is beautiful. I'm sure you'll find a place."

"Mmm."

"By the way, Joan"—Alphonse looked up in a thoughtful expression—"does Shakespeare know which Leygate to get back home?"

Joan of Arc paled. "Oh, Jesus—"

* * *

><p>"Christ, we're finally here," Scathach muttered, getting out of the car and carried the motionless Sophie out. She had woken up half an hour earlier, but her heightened senses were so overwhelming that they caused her intense pain, so she refrained from moving too much.<p>

Josh had parked them in the parking lot right beside the plaza housing the Witch of Endor's store. After getting out of the car and locking the doors, Scatty delicately handed him Sophie, who was blinking up at the overcast sky above.

"We're here," he whispered to her. "We'll get this fixed, Sophie, I swear."

"It's so bright, Josh," she murmured. "I hate it. My head hurts. Even my own voice is so loud."

Josh pursed his lips. There wasn't anything he could say to comfort her.

Nicholas Flamel came up behind them, looking around for any sign of being followed. He silently cursed his paranoia, but after living this long, and living _this_ kind of life . . . he knew when to be careful. He ran and hid for the majority of his immortality, and being so out in the open caused his instincts to go haywire.

"Let's hurry inside," Scathach suggested.

They took her advice and hurried across the street. Arriving at the Witch of Endor's shop, Flamel knocked once—and without another moment's notice or an invite to enter, he opened the door and ushered everyone inside.

It looked like Zephaniah had been expecting them. Knowing her, she probably did. She was leaning against the counter and stared at a mirror that had their reflections in it. Noting her bored expression, Flamel estimated she'd been waiting for a while.

"So you finally decided to arrive," said the Witch. "You arrived earlier than I'd predicted, actually."

"You probably thought I'd wait for you to open the door," said the Alchemyst.

The Witch smirked. "Hm. Maybe." Without skipping a beat, she regarded Scathach. "Finally decided to visit your grandmother? How long has it been? You didn't even call. _At least_ Aoife contacted me."

"I've been busy," Scathach tried to explain. "Honestly, Grandmother. But it is good to see you alive and well."

"Alive? Scathach, who do you take me for? I didn't hear a 'young' in there."

Scatty forced a smile. "You're still the same as always."

"You haven't changed at all, either. Ah, Flamel, did you involve innocent youngsters again? What have I told you last time? Finding the Gold and Silver Twins isn't all that easy."

"I am aware, I've been doing it for centuries," Nicholas said. "But this time, I have found the true Twins of Prophecy. The boy is Josh Newman. Sophie, his sister, has already been Awakened. As you can see, she survived and is alive."

_Been doing it for centuries?_ Josh thought. _There have been other twins before us? Flamel's not telling us everything. Is he just pretending to be on our side? Wait, but what happened to the other twins?_

He shuddered to think of their fate.

"_Barely_ alive," the Witch corrected. "And I'm assuming you're here because you want me to do something about helping to control her senses. After all, what good is she to you practically immobile?"

"Grandmother!"

"It's true."

"You already know," Flamel answered. "You've seen this future."

"I have," said Zephaniah, inclining her head.

"Will you help?"

"The only way I can do that is to share my memories with her."

"Do it. She needs to learn air magic sooner or later. Your memories may help us also."

"Is this safe?" Josh asked, concerned for his sister.

"Completely," the Witch of Endor assured. "But . . it has some side-effects if she chooses to let it overwhelm her."

"And they are?"

"She may begin to mistake my memories for her own."

"What?"

"As in, she can start to lose her identity."

"Do . . . it," Sophie mumbled. "Please. I want this to stop."

"But, Sophie," Josh said.

"It's okay," she said.

"I can also teach her to keep my memories separate from hers," Zephaniah offered. "It won't take too long."

"I don't think we have that long," Flamel said.

"Unfortunately, you're right. I've seen this future and more. You need to make your decision now, before . . . hm, any _unwelcoming party_ arrives."

Josh cut in, "I still don't think this is a good idea. Sophie, we have no idea what could happen to y—"

"Hey, Crazy Lady," interrupted a haughty voice, "I got your goddamned dish detergent, but they're so blasted expensive. Back in my time, gas didn't cost a penny. By the way, I went by a group of punks later that I punched the living daylights out of—apparently they thought I was some girl and started making faces at me."

A teenager, looking around fifteen or sixteen ("I'm _eighteen,_ dammit!") with free-flowing blond hair and peculiar _gold eyes—_was that genetically possible?—walked into the store and put down a shopping bag. Without looking up, he produced a hair tie from within the bag and proceeded to tie up his hair, his gloved hands working fast and agile. He was biting down on a Popsicle stick.

Still not noticing the other occupants of the room, the strangely-dressed boy continued speaking in the casual way unfit for the situation.

"I taught them a lesson. Rest assured, they know my gender. I even went and bought some elastic bands and tied up their hair all pretty-like. Oh, right. I just remembered. If the police knock on the door, tell them I'm not here." The new-arrival finally looked up and froze, suddenly self-conscious. "Uh, sorry," he said awkwardly, ". . . didn't know you had company."

Cue Edward Elric walking in and crashing the party, while completely spoiling the moment.

The Witch of Endor sighed heavily and face palmed.

"What? Was I . . . interrupting something?" Edward wanted to know, staring at the unrecognizable faces that filled the room.

Actually, one he recognized. The one man in the room was the same one that he'd seen getting out of the battered van when he was fighting the Morrigan on the Golden Gate Bridge. Although he looked a lot older and worse for wear, now, he was definitely the same person.

Edward didn't know if the man recognized him. He probably didn't, seeing as the battle went too quick to get a quick description, and Edward was just happy he hadn't made another potential enemy.

"Who's this?" Flamel asked the Witch. So he didn't recognize Edward. "I didn't know you kept company."

"I don't. He kind of dropped in and starting loading off of me."

"Hey!" Edward snapped, offended. "I'm not _loading off of you_. I'm doing everything for you! You don't even _thank_ me for it. Some Equivalent Exchange this is . . . " Then he went off on some angrily muttered tangent.

"Idiot Boy, don't just stand there. I need you to install the Internet."

"I don't even know what the hell that is or how to bloody install it!" Edward yelled, outraged. He paused. "Wait, hold on. Now I do. _NO,_ I AM NOT DOING IT."

"Excuse me for being rude," Josh spoke up.

He wasn't usually so polite to strangers that dropped in on their conversation, but this boy here, not older by him much, intimidated him greatly. He didn't know the reasons for it, but the teen emanated an unquantifiable confidence.

"But," he continued, "just who are you?"

Zephaniah answered for Edward before he could.

"Josh Newman, Nicholas Flamel, Scathach . . . I'd like to introduce to you Edward Elric, my newest employee. Before you go on to ask more questions, yes, he knows about me—and thus, you, in general—and yes, he has a knack for attracting the police. Please don't let this revelation concern you too much; it'll only give you a headache."

Josh, Flamel and Scathach appeared bewildered, and Edward was just as confused.

"Wait . . . I never told you my full name."

"You didn't have to. All employers must know their employees' last names."

"I thought I made this pretty clear," Edward started, and then reverted to German. "_I. Am. Not. Your. Employee._"

"Details," the Witch waved off his claim dismissively. "It just happens that I saw the future, with you screaming your name at an enemy."

Edward tilted his head. Yeah, okay. He'll give her that one. It seemed like a valid enough point. After all, he was very much aware of his tendency to do that. What? He liked the flair for the dramatic.

"How does he know about us?" Nicholas demanded. "Does he know _everything_? About you being . . . "

The Witch of Endor nodded.

"But, how—?" He cut himself off.

This boy could very well be a spy sent by Dee to—

"I knew about you and your world before I found out she was a goddess," Edward interjected. He wasn't going to tell them about him saving their asses back at the Bridge just yet. "It was only a matter of time. I know what you're thinking. I've been here the whole time. There's absolutely no way you can be tailed. But that is not my primary concern.

"Nicholas Flamel. I've been looking for you."

* * *

><p><strong>And there you have it! Also note that I've placed a lot of ". . ." in there. What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. ;)<strong>

**Remember to review! That is practically my motivation for getting off my ass and finishing this story. But it is really appreciated, so thanks.**


	15. XV: Crossroads of Fate PT 2

**I've made some changes to the previous chapter to better fit this one. It's not a huge differ from the plot - just the fact that Edward recognizes Flamel as the man he'd seen on the Bridge with the 'green haze' floating around him (as he battled the Morrigan). However, because of the battle, Flamel couldn't make out any of his rescuer's features, thus meaning that he doesn't recognize Edward. Yet. He will. When he puts all the pieces together. Before, he had absolutely no idea on Ed's identity, but he's beginning to, because Alphonse was (obviously) his apprentice.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SINF and/or FMA.**

* * *

><p>What was he supposed to say to that?<p>

A foreboding silence hung in the air. No one dared to speak. They held their breaths in apprehension.

For once in his 681 years of life, Nicholas Flamel had been struck dumb by a simple statement: "I've been looking for you."

In his right mind, he would have demanded, "Who are you?" But that was stupid, because this boy had already introduced himself to be 'Edward Elric'. He would have said, then, perhaps, "What do you want?" Or even more straight forward, "Why were you searching for me?"

But no. He was unable to produce a single syllable from his voice.

The whole time he'd been thinking about the possibilities. Each individual question raced across his mind so fast that he barely had time to solve it, or even ponder the answer. If he did, then perhaps he wouldn't have been too suspicious of Elric's identity.

_Why is he here? _

_What does he want with me? _

_What exactly is his business? _

_Can he be trusted?_

_It can't be coincidence . . . _

_He presented himself HERE, where I would be. But he's already said that he'd been here long before, and that it was pure chance._

_Pure chance._

_At the same time, he's been searching for me. How can he 'happen' to bump into me?_

_It wasn't just coincidence._

_Edward Elric . . . Elric. Why does that sound familiar? Those eyes, too . . . Could he be . . . ? But seventy years ago, I had . . . _

He still couldn't procure a single sentence, let alone word. And with so many thoughts, you'd think he'd at least pick one.

What was wrong with him? Talking back had always come straightforward for him. After all, what were all those run-ins with John Dee about? They were practically giving him the _chance_ to spout some offending bullshit at the English doctor.

And it had come so naturally. So what was wrong with him? Why couldn't he seem to find his voice _now_, of all times?

"What the hell is going on?" Scatty demanded, shattering the silence. She, frankly, didn't mind it. All the events circling around these twins were starting to trouble her, and she had had enough. She wanted answers now.

"Good question." Edward walked over to the cashier counter, hoisted himself up and then sat down in a cross-legged fashion, propping up his chin and leaning against his elbow. "Thank you, by the way," he said. "I wanted to ask that question too."

Flamel snapped out of his stupor and regarded Edward with an incisive glance.

"What?" the blond said. "I came here just now—I had no idea what you guys were talking about. So gone on. Continue with the conversation."

"Just like that?" Josh said.

Edward nodded.

"Are you always this rude?"

"No, just insufferably blunt," responded Dora. "You'll get used to it."

Edward scowled at her. "Come _on_, people. Didn't you hear what Crazy Lady said? You don't have all day. And I'm really bored. I'm starting to pray for whoever's hunting you to show up and start something. Gods, it's really boring."

"Which side are you on?" Flamel finally managed to get out.

"Hm? Side?"

"Yes. Which side? Theirs, or ours?"

"Well, neither," replied Edward. "I don't take sides. But I usually side with the underdogs because I want to beat the crap out of those who think they're high and mighty, or at least whoever's not the most annoying. If I find anyone that pisses me off, I'll join the opposite side just to piss _him_ off." The blond grinned deviously.

"So . . . our side, then," Nicholas concluded, resisting the urge to shiver. "But who are you, exactly? And what do you want with me?"

"Nothing of the sort you're thinking. As I said, or Crazy Lady's said"—here, he frowned—"I'm Edward Elric. I was travelling around in France when I heard from some passersby that you're an alchemist. You were rather renowned in the country, so I decided to give it a gander. And seeing as you're still here now, I'm guessing you're immortal."

"Yes, but—"

"In fact, I've been looking for you for _eighty-eight years_." His furrowed his eyebrows. "That's some commitment . . ."

"Are you immortal as well?"

"No," Edward said simply. "Look, I'm not your enemy, nor your anything. I had some questions about the Gulf of Mexico's geography, but seeing as I know what it is now, your insight is useless to me. But it's been nice meeting you."

" . . . Been?"

"Yeah. You being here means that shit will most likely occur. I don't want to be a part of it."

He thought back to their encounter on the Bridge. He'd saved Flamel and his party from being ripped to shreds by the Morrigan's crows. To say that Flamel attracted trouble was like saying Edward _didn't_ attract trouble—which he did. At the same time, he was silently glad that he'd saved Flamel. After all, the world would have most likely been destroyed by now if he hadn't.

_And the pure coincidence of us meeting on that bridge before all gathering here . . ._

"Oh, Edward," said the Witch of Endor, freakishly affectionate. "You have less than no choice on the matter."

The alchemist grimaced. "I was afraid of that. Okay then, let's get down to business. What were you speaking about before I entered?"

"Edward, are you aware of the Awakening process?" Dora asked him.

The teenager looked off to the side, eyes shrouded in haze. Then they cleared and he peered up at them. "Now I do. Why are you asking?"

"The girl here," said the goddess, gesturing to the half-conscious body in Josh's arms, "is Sophie Newman, and she's been Awakened. We were just debating on whether or not I should help her with coping with her Awakened senses."

For some reason, Edward muttered some words in Spanish, probably involuntarily and then said, "It must be really uncomfortable seeing, hearing, feeling everything. I think you should give it a go. But I'm no expert, at least not in experience."

"I don't think it's a good idea," Josh pressed.

"Who're you?" Edward spoke, then quickly answered for himself, "Josh, right? Right, okay, I don't think you're well-aware of the situation. Your sister here is suffering from an overload of senses, meaning she can very well go insane. You're her brother, right? You should be _concerned_ for her health, not making decisions for her that can very well cause her even more pain."

Josh was dumbfounded.

"And," Edward continued, mercilessly unconcerned for the other's feelings, "would you really want to push that kind of burden on her? She's already suffering—okay, maybe giving her the Crazy Lady's memories isn't such a good idea. Sure there are risks. But right now, those two are balanced. We might as well eliminate the first problem and worry about the potential one later."

"Josh . . ." Sophie began hoarsely, "please? Do this for me."

Josh glared accusingly at everyone in the room, especially Edward. Then he placed Sophie down and made sure she could stand on her own before moving towards the door.

"You can go ahead and do whatever you want," he said. "But don't bring me into this."

Then he exited the store and disappeared from sight.

Sophie sighed. "I can't believe he's throwing a tantrum now of all times."

"Does he do that often?" Edward said.

"Unfortunately."

"I assume you're the older one."

She nodded.

"I have a brother too," said the blond.

"Really? Is he older too?"

"No. Younger. But he acts like he's older than me. Sometimes I'm the one that causes his immediate maturity."

Sophie gave a weary grin. "Younger brothers. You know, they think it's their job to protect us, even though it's our responsibility."

"I think that just means we don't do _our_ jobs well," Edward said.

Sophie blinked, considering it. Even though she wanted to disagree—he _was_ referring to himself stating that after all—she couldn't help but coincide with the regrettable fact that it was true.

"He wants the best for me, that's all," she said quietly.

Edward hadn't gotten a good look at her before because she was lying in someone's arms and facing away from him, but now that he could see her better, he realized she appeared a lot like Winry—complete with the blonde hair and shimmering blue eyes—except maybe she was lacking the spunk.

He had to remind himself that this wasn't his childhood friend here, but merely a doppelganger, a clone of the real one. This side of the Gate had them all. He even ran across Mustang once on one of his trips to Sweden. What the man was doing there, he didn't know. He tried his best to refrain from punching his face, but it turned out well in the end.

For him, maybe. This side's Mustang was just as infuriating annoying with his god complex and unnatural attraction towards anything pretty.

Thinking about all his friends back home made him depressed, so Edward decided not to dwell on the subject.

"I didn't want to say this earlier," Edward began reluctantly, "but your brother is jealous."

"Jealous?" Sophie repeated. "Of what?"

The Witch of Endor smirked. "You don't see it? He's obviously brooding over the fact that you have powers and he's still a normal human."

"Being a normal human is perfectly fine," Edward insisted.

Dora ignored him. "Sophie, you should have a talk with Josh. He's counting himself unlucky because you got Awakened first."

"But being Awakened is not cutting out to all that it's supposed to be," Sophie said miserably. "Doesn't he understand that?"

"Let him understand that."

Suddenly, Edward lapsed into one of his common episodes, gasping in pain and clutching his head. All heads snapped in his direction, safe for the Witch of Endor, who simply watched.

"What's wrong with him, Grandmother?" Scathach demanded alarmingly, who was previously silent this whole time. "Is he sick?"

"I'm . . . not sick," Edward grounded out. "Just perhaps . . . mentally unstable. When I see _Him_ again . . . Truth, I will fuck you up."

Flamel shot the Witch a look of confusion. The old crone exhaled and looked on wearily.

Pretty soon, Edward's fit of pain passed, and he processed the information he'd just obtained. It didn't look good for Sophie and her brother. The fact of the truth was, they weren't . . .

"Sophie," he began to say, catching himself early, and then starting up again. "Sophie, you and your brother aren't exactly—You were found when—I—"

"What is it . . . Edward, was it?"

Edward caught sight of Dora shaking her head at him. It was only slightly, and he barely got the message, but it was there: _Don't say anything. They mustn't know about their heritage just yet._

Perhaps it was because it would mess up the future's outcomes, Edward thought.

"I know we're supposed these 'Twins of Legend'," Sophie said. "But I know we don't look that alike."

"Oh," Edward said, expelling a breath of relief. "Yeah. I was trying to ask you that."

"Idiot Boy," the Witch muttered. To Sophie, she inquired, "Are you ready to proceed? If you're not feeling well, we can wait a little more."

Sophie took a shuddering breath. "I'm all right. I can do this."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Please, continue."

Edward observed on with mild interest. It all seemed appealing at first—with _Flamel_ showing up of all places, with a pair of legendary twins in tow, and potentially a whole army out to get him not far behind. He wondered who his enemy was . . . The Morrigan again, maybe? He simply liked the challenge and adrenaline that danger presented him.

It wasn't so fascinating anymore. He knew about the gods and goddesses, he knew magic existed—much to his chagrin—and he knew about the hell he'd gotten himself into.

A little voice inside of him—sounding suspiciously like Al—kept whispering his wish to just go back to the way things were before he found that transmutation circle in the Gulf. He wanted to go back to hunting nuclear weapons and saving the world—but not this way. And certainly not without his little brother by his side.

_We need to get ready for our guests. They're arriving soon,_ Dora had said.

Was it just him, or were the guests she was referring to not Flamel's party, but whoever's after him?

"Hey, Crazy—" he wanted to ask, but cut himself off when he realized that said Crazy Lady was already beginning the process of transferring her memories to Sophie. Edward watched on, noting the webs of air snaking up the girl's arms and how they disappear around her head as if they were strands of knowledge.

He averted his gaze—it felt like a private session to him—and looked out the window instead. The sun wasn't out, and the wind was deathly calm. A fog was beginning to sweep over the town. Edward caught a glimpse of Josh sitting down on a bench, all the way in the park across the street. He was talking to another person cloaked in black.

Most peculiar. Josh just came here. He hadn't met anyone he knew yet, had he?

Edward subconsciously rubbed his auto-mail ports. It struck him odd how he felt it _now_ of all times.

They pained him, something that hadn't occurred for quite a while. Even on the night of when he met Dora he didn't feel anything. It was because of Winry's new auto-mail; they battled against the level of moisture in the air from affecting his stubs.

But the pain was coming back, and it hurt more than he ever remembered it to. What changed?

"It's going to rain," he announced to no one in particular.

"Looks like it," Scatty remarked, trying to strike up a conversation. "You sound pretty sure."

"It's a feeling I have. Hey, uh, I'm going to step out for a bit, all right?"

No one objected or acknowledged him. The Witch was too busy with transferring knowledge to Sophie.

"Can you call back Josh?" Flamel requested. "We're almost done here."

With or without him asking, Edward was going to do it anyway. Seeing as Sophie didn't want to settle things with her brother, it looked like he was going to have to.

_I'll talk some sense into him_, he thought, slipping off the counter.

He stepped outside and quietly shut the door behind him. Now the fog was nearly opaque. He could barely see the park nearby. His shoulder ached uncomfortably. Not so much that it was unbearable, but just so that it was annoying the hell out of him. It was impossible to completely ignore.

And there was something else out there, too. It was just as difficult to disregard. The moment he stepped outside, he wrinkled his nose in disgust because the air smelled _rancid_, like rotten eggs. Edward remembered back to those days in his father's lab, occasionally blowing it up and filling the room with sulphur. This was that scent.

Why did it smell so damn familiar? It wasn't just his link with his father's lab, it was _someone_ else.

Edward started for the park bench, hoping Josh was still there. He also wanted to know just who he was talking to earlier.

* * *

><p>It had been exactly three weeks since Alphonse's trip to the Washington Stronghold. Since then, he'd been reoccupied with figuring out his father's research, so he spent most days cooped up in his room, surrounded by towers of texts and bits of sheets strewn across the room.<p>

On occasions Joan had stopped by to drop off dinner or yell at him to go outside and exercise, but in the end Alphonse always returned to his work. Joan knew it was futile. Honestly, what was the difference between being secluded all day than living underground?

The answer was none. None, at all.

She didn't see the point of the boy staying here, loading off of them. He might as well have gone back to Washington and lived there instead, where he could have all the materials he needed.

_Bad thoughts, Jeanne,_ she chastised herself. _Expel those bad thoughts! Alphonse is our guest here._

In fact, the boy barely ate anything. He was so busy with scribbling down unreadable nonsense that he didn't even bother to notice his hunger or the tray of steaming French goodness that lay just near the desk to the side of him.

At the end of the day, she'd come into his room and see him lying sleeping on his bed, with a mountain of paper acting as his blanket. She couldn't actually see the bed anymore. The floor was in the same state.

Everyday of these three weeks, Alphonse had spent his free time going back to Washington and returning with a pile of research data. He kept bringing back bits and pieces of his father's work everyday until he had the majority of it at his disposal. And then he went on to retrieve the chemistry supplies there.

Joan wasn't sure this was healthy—hell, it wasn't—but Alphonse was a responsible young man, having kept watch over the Washington Stronghold this whole time.

_If only Edward was like this,_ she sighed.

In truth, he was every bit as worse Alphonse—always forgetting to eat (he was actually a _huge_ eater, draining their food supply in the process, but only when he remembered to do it), constantly fussing over science and all its trade, reading himself to the point of running a fever, and continually shutting himself up in his room.

Except Alphonse didn't go looking for trouble. Edward had at least spent once a week at the police station. It could've been more, but the blond didn't let himself get caught so easily.

Joan had often talked with Hohenheim about this, but he seemed to consider this behaviour normal and did nothing about it whatsoever. He himself wasn't any better than his boys. She wondered why that was.

_Like father like son,_ they say.

All three Elrics had posed a mystery to her for a long time now. She speculated on what they did in their free time, besides from tinkering and tampering with science. She had a bad feeling that it was every bit as far from legal, and every bit as dangerous.

But it wasn't like she didn't do any of these things from time-to-time.

Still! She was hundreds of years old. These boys were like babies compared to the experience she'd gained over her long life.

On another pleasant note aside from that particular worry, Francis, the Comte de Saint-Germain, had also returned back to Paris once or twice to check on his new-established—however unconditional—family before continuing the hunt for Nicholas Flamel, who was supposed to be Alphonse's Alchemy teacher.

The man was more than missing, though, so that goal has been somewhat of a challenge for the count and Palamedes' pack of dogs. As a matter of fact, Palamedes had once remarked that Flamel had 'vanished off the face of the earth'. But that was untrue because he still had a scent trail left by Flamel. (His dogs just weren't so good at sniffing out the rat. It's more of a cat's job anyway.)

Alphonse refused to learn magic unless Flamel was found, so Joan had been teaching him how to control his aura. But added to that and his tendency to be attracted towards alchemical enquiry, the boy had not gotten much rest since his Awakening, and thus he was still weak on the mental side.

And perhaps his physical side as well. He barely slept.

Now, back to present time.

Joan was Arc was in the kitchen, preparing the day's lunch, and Alphonse Elric was still in his room, decoding his father's research. All good alchemists knew to encrypt their notes, because there was a likely chance someone might come along, steal it, and then use it for the wrong purposes.

Right now, though, he was resting his head, because there was something he hadn't told anybody yet—not even Joan, who he lived with, and you'd think she'd realize it by now.

Alphonse had been getting a voice in his head.

It sounded suspiciously like Mars.

Like the god was trying to make friends with him.

It started out as a dream at first—he heard the god's voice. And then that quickly escalated to daily invasions of his mind, and then totally lapsing into friendly banter and casual discussion. Who knew the war god was so conversational?

Or maybe perhaps, Alphonse reasoned, that he simply reminded Mars of his sons, Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome. It was misleading, since all he felt like was a replacement for his sons.

Of course he didn't tell anybody about it. They didn't have to know. And it wasn't like Mars was _using_ him. Their conversations seemed safe enough. They were about trivial things like about the weather, and the occasional question about Alphonse's peculiar style of Alchemy. Nothing too weird that suggested some coup d'état or secret reconnaissance.

The war god was _stuck_ in his own _shell of an aura_, for Truth's sake. There wasn't much Mars could do to blackmail him.

**I assure you, **said Mars' voice inside his head, **I will not use the information you've shared with me for some other purpose. It is . . . lonely down here. You do understand.**

_Yes,_ admitted Alphonse. _I've been stuck inside a suit of armour for years. You think I don't understand lonesomeness?_

At first from waking up from that dream, Alphonse thought it was simply a nightmare. And when it happened again in broad daylight, he'd thought he'd gone crazy. But when he gave Mars the time to explain himself, he soon learned that whatever god Awakened you had the power to use you to their own will—including controlling you, killing you, brainwashing you, sharing your eyes, sharing your emotions, and sharing your thoughts.

Alphonse had felt like his identity had been robbed of him. He felt like he didn't own his own personal space anymore.

But now, he sort of enjoyed the god's company. But that didn't make it any less uncomfortable.

Mars annoyed him sometimes. Oh, the questions the god would ask. So annoying! What would you expect from a person that didn't know about recent pop culture at all because he was crammed into a cave for eternity? Alphonse was eager to answer at first, but the inquiries soon got tiring. He ignored Mars altogether.

And the god was totally oblivious to it! He rattled on and on and Alphonse just sat there, completely dejected.

_Can you, maybe, go and hang out with your fauns?_ Alphonse asked of him.

**No. They have their own business to take care of.**

_Like spreading terror?_

**Yes.**

_Well, can you be quieter, please? You can hang around in my head, but don't say anything._

**As you wish, **Mars said. Alphonse could've sworn he sighed disappointedly.

He was going to ask, but then Joan pushed open the door and came into the room, holding a plate of steaming sausages and eggs in her hand.

"Hungry?" she said.

**Starving,** said Mars. **It's been a long time since I've had human food.**

_Didn't I tell you to be quiet? It's for me._

There it was again. That disappointed sigh.

"Thank you, Joan," Alphonse said. "I'd love some."

"And you're sure you're going to eat everything this time?" the Frenchwoman asked, eyeing him carefully.

He nodded cogently. "Promise."

"All right, then . . ." She handed the plate to him. "Make sure you eat _everything_, am I clear? I don't want you fainting on me."

"I didn't," Alphonse replied indignantly.

"You will if you don't eat."

"I already said I was, woman, get off my back." Alphonse turned away, affronted.

Joan started shaking her head, but of course he couldn't see. "You men . . . You're so similar to your brother that it's not even—" With a huff, she left the room, not even bothering to finish her sentence.

Alphonse smiled. He knew the pretense was all in a good nature, and neither of their insults had meant to hurt the other. He imagined Joan down the hall, smiling to herself as well.

He dug into his food. It tasted so good—warm and juicy, salted just right. The French did really make the best food.

* * *

><p>It was not another five months later until they finally found Flamel. Francis was ready to sic the dogs on him. He'd spent all that time searching for the goddamned Alchemyst with nothing coming up on his end. Well, not anymore.<p>

Okay, there was a bit of an exaggeration. His exact location was still currently unknown. But they knew where he went, just not which city he was in.

One day, the Count of Saint-Germain warped into the church via Leygate and accidentally walked in on one of Joan's aura-controlling lessons with Alphonse.

"Yeah," he started, breathless, "how's it coming along?"

Joan stood, surprised. "_Mon cher_. Back so quick?"

"Yes, I know I've just left, but we've got something. Actually, that's all it is. _Something_. But it's better than what we didn't have these past few weeks."

He pulled up a chair and sat down with Joan and Alphonse.

"We were finishing up my first aura-solidifying lesson," explained Alphonse. "I can't quite get the hang of it, though . . ." He stared at his hands.

"In all honesty, you're doing pretty well," Joan comforted. "Solidifying your aura is a trick not many can grasp in such a quick time. The problem is you need to keep it a constant shape. Your glove tends to fade in and out of existence, and I can't tell if it's a glove or not."

"What are you talking about?" Alphonse said. "It hasn't even solidified for a millisecond. This is hopeless."

To prove his point, he conjured his aura and gathered it into his hand, shaping it to his will—moulding, sculpting. But his aura never solidified. It stayed in a hazy state. One could see his hand through the black silhouette, yet the shadow was never constant. It shifted and moved and dwindled.

Alphonse let go of his aura and it dissipated into the air, like mist unfurling off the lake surface in the chilly morning. He dropped his hand into his lap, glancing up at Joan and Francis' expressions.

The Frenchwoman was biting her lip, brooding over a thought. Francis was leaning forward, gaze fixed on Alphonse unblinkingly.

"You said you were an alchemist first, right?" the count said.

Alphonse nodded.

"That probably explains it. Shaping aura is essentially a magical skill. Your body doesn't understand the fundamentals of magic. It's like trying out coffee for the first time versus another who has been drinking coffee for ten years. You get a different affect. One's more tolerant than the other."

"It's like . . . your energy is all jumbled up," Joan surmised. "That's exactly it. You can't control your aura because it's all over the place. We need something to direct it easier."

Alphonse looked down at himself. "Well, I _am_ an alchemist. I've relied on the earth's energy because I didn't have my own. Its energy was more direct because of the Ley lines. I suppose my body's just trying to balance these two energies, and it's not used to channelling its own."

"You'll have to teach it to, then."

"Right. Give it training wheels. Like—" He gasped.

"What?" Francis said, alarmed. "What is it?"

Alphonse's face lit up. "I know now! This might actually work!"

"Wait, what will?"

"This!"

The boy clapped his hands together and held his right hand over his left, allowing his body to ooze aura until he had a generous amount. Then, using the alchemical sequence as a conduit, he 'transmuted' the aura around his left hand until it formed a gauntlet.

Alphonse felt the energies inside his body shift and swirl in the pit of his stomach. Then they relaxed, accepting one another. Completing an alchemical circle with a clap of his hands, he could channel both the earth's energy and his aura. They were essentially the same thing already, except he only stored one of them in his body.

The French people in the room stared.

"What happened just now?" Joan wanted to know.

"Alchemy," said Alphonse, surprise lacing his tone.

The only thing he had to perfect was keeping the earth's energy away from his when he was transmuting his aura. Other than that, he had no problem with learning magic now. Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.

However, he noted, it seemed he was still unable to perform alchemy the old-fashioned way. Back in Washington, he was able to complete a diagnostic, but he felt like . . . a part of his Inner Gate was missing, like it'd been deconstructed halfway and he could only complete 1/3 of a full transmutation.

He didn't know what alchemy would be like with an aura. He suspected it would be very different.

"How does that even work?" Francis demanded.

"I don't know, other than the fact that I'm not actually doing Alchemy—it requires the earth's energy. I'm actually using my aura to transmute my aura."

"Complicated."

"Oh, I know."

"I think you've invented a form of new magic," said Joan. "What do you want to name it?"

Alphonse contemplated it for a second. "Hmm . . ." he said. "How about aura-Alchemy? The shaping of one's own aura into what form they want it to be. Different from actual Alchemy, which requires a secondary energy source, and is performed differently, too. I know it's a little ironic."

"It is. But I like it."

"I have a question," said Francis, raising his hand. "What happens when you want to do Alchemy? I mean, since you can't do _your_ version of Alchemy, you're going to have to use your aura for this variety. Will it be considered aura-Alchemy Alchemy?"

The young alchemist laughed. "That would be the technical description. I'll come up with a name for that later." He suddenly had a thought. "Oh, Francis, didn't you come back here to update us on Flamel's whereabouts?"

Saint-Germain slapped his forehead. "Sorry, I totally forgot—Right. Flamel. He's . . . not in Europe."

"I sort of suspected," said Joan. "He's all over the place these past two hundred years."

"So where is he?" Alphonse asked.

"In India," replied the count. "Don't ask me how he managed to pop up there."

"How on earth did you track him all the way to India?"

Francis leaned forward. "See, this is the funny part. I realized about a week ago that the only way to track Flamel is not by scent, but by when he gets up and starts moving again. And do you know what the trigger is?"

"Dee," said Alphonse.

"Exactly. Unlike Flamel, the Doctor's got a passion for the dramatic. Every time he manages to find Flamel and force him to leave his hidey-hole, there's always a trail of destruction in his wake. I just followed that trail and eventually had an encounter with Dee."

"That's smart."

"You're not hurt, are you?" Joan said worriedly.

"No, no, of course not," said Francis, waving off her concern. "He didn't even see me. This happened way down in Italy, and I got one of Palamedes' dogs to track the Flamels. Recently we got the report, and Flamel's definitely in India—we're just not sure the specific location."

"Does that mean . . . ?" Alphonse began, apprehensive.

"That's right," nodded the count. "We're heading to India."

Of course, Alphonse had to finish up his aura controlling lessons—and start a little fire magic, just in case for self-defence—so they didn't depart until two months later. But that was all right. He did have forever, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Next time on: The Secrets of Danu Talis<strong>

He didn't want to be powerless. He wanted to fight. He wanted to do _something_. He _had _to protect Sophie.

_I don't want to do nothing_, he thought. _I can't run. Not today._

Josh marched the way Edward had gone—but not to confront Dee. Instead, he went his own way.

He wasn't going to fight with his fists. He knew he lacked the power to do it.

_You don't need power to be strong._

* * *

><p><strong>Remember to review! I reply to everyone.<strong>

**Note: I'm sorry about not putting the big fighting sequence in this chapter. It would have happened, if I hadn't gotten another plot idea on Alphonse's end. I hope you don't mind this change, but don't worry! I'm already starting to write the next chapter, where it's all dedicated to Ed's storyline, and he does kick some ass! Again, I'm sorry for the absence of the fight. I didn't want to make the chapter TOO long. I hope you understand.**

**As always, thanks for reading!**


	16. XVI: You Don't Need Power To Be Strong

**Here is the next chapter! I decided to break this chapter into two parts because I realized it was too long. But lucky for you, I've uploaded them at the same time!**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own SINF and/or FMA.**

* * *

><p>Edward found Josh near the bench by the water fountain. While he stood back and waited for the right opportunity to criticize—<em>ahem<em>, console—Josh, the latter blond was taking moody sips from the fountain. His body tensed as Edward approached, and he thought the other hadn't noticed—but Ed just wanted him to think that. Yes, there was this reverse-reverse psychology going on here.

Comforting wasn't his forte, because he hadn't had anybody around to do the same for him. Except maybe Al, but he didn't do comforting much. Yelling and calling him stupid, maybe. Hardly comforting.

What would his mother say in this situation?

Well, in what situation did a person find themselves in when they've 1) told off somebody and 2) later came back to say they didn't mean it? Almost none, because you either do one or the other, not both. Edward found himself in a bind.

So while Josh occupied himself with pretending to drink the fountain water, Edward stood nearby awkwardly, analyzing the bark of a neighbouring tree—it was actually pretty interesting—all to pass the time. In truth, he didn't know how to begin. What should he say first?

"_Sorry I insulted you; I didn't mean that_"? No, that sounded retarded.

"_I kind of went overboard earlier and didn't take your feelings into account. Maybe next time you shouldn't be such a sissy and take it like a man_"? No, he wasn't _trying_ to be an asshole!

_This is hopeless. I'm not good with words! Why isn't Al here?_ Edward spun away from Josh, facing the tree, and scratched at his hair furiously. _Why did I even volunteer to do this? I didn't HAVE to come and apologize. This is what you get_ for being nice.

He started wringing his hands, because his anxiety didn't seem to want to go away. He knew that if he continued this behaviour, the latex skin around his auto-mail arm would rip. Edward jammed his hands into his pockets to stop himself from potentially compromising his identity.

It was a while before any of them spoke. Josh shattered the silence as he sat back down on the bench.

"So," he said in a smartass-y tone, "you decided to come back—_after you chased me away_. You. Came to find _me_."

"Flamel told me to."

Josh scoffed. "That's really believable."

"Look, I didn't mean to say what I said. Okay, yes I did. But I didn't realize how sensitive you were. I mean—that's not what I mean. You know that's not what I meant." Edward growled loudly. "All right, okay? _Yes_, I told you off. I'm trying to apologize; it's not strange!"

"Uh, _yes it is_?" said Josh. "Because it's really weird when someone obviously doesn't like you, and then comes back to make friends. _Normal people_ stay away from each other."

"It's totally fine to be normal!" Edward exploded. "That's what this whole thing is about, isn't it? You're jealous of your sister, because she's been Awakened and has a whole new set of powers that you don't have! But being normal is okay. I'm normal, non-magic, and I'm all right with that."

"Yes, but that's because you have no hope of being magical. I'm supposed to be the _Gold_ _Twin of legend._"

Edward blinked. "Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"You obviously don't understand this whole Twin of Legend concept, do you?" Josh told him. "No, of course not."

The alchemist frowned. He actually did know—the knowledge transfer that occurred earlier which informed him of Josh and Sophie's ancestry told him everything about them, including who they were, and the countless candidates before them.

"You don't have to do it," said Edward.

Josh looked up at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You don't have to do what Fate says. You don't have to be the one of the Twins of Legend."

"Yes, I do. It's been written in the Codex. Everything prescribed in the text has happened. This isn't something I can easily avoid."

"Why are you so insistent? That just means—sooner or later—you'll get Awakened too. What's the rush?"

Josh tapped his foot impatiently. "You won't understand."

"Try me."

"Why are you really here?" the Gold Twin demanded, at the same time Edward said 'me'. "It's not because you're here to insult me again, is it? That seems kind of counterproductive to me. Unless you're not who you say you are."

"Believe me; I've been speaking the truth." _Just not all of it._ "And I do mean it when I say I've come to apologize," Edward added. "I also get the fact that you want power to protect your sister, but power isn't everything."

Josh raised a skeptical eyebrow, looking very much doubtful.

"Tsk. Josh, look, I was crippled for five years, and a friend of mine—she was a regular person like you and me—she took up the responsibility of providing with the help to get back on my feet. And with my new prosthetics, I was able to protect myself against challenging times. Josh, she didn't have magic. She didn't have heightened senses or anything of the supernatural sort. She simply had her hands and her knowledge."

Josh took the moment to mull over his words. When he spoke it again, it was obvious he had considered them. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Honestly," Edward said, "I don't know. But you have to understand with great power comes great responsibility."

"You got that off Spiderman."

"What's that?"

"You're . . . not serious."

Edward seriously had no idea what a Spiderman was. "Look, that's not my point," he said. "My point is: You can be great in your own right without powers; all you need is talent and the skill it takes to utilize it."

"Right."

"Josh, a mere farm boy from the Russian countryside single-handedly stopped nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union. He was a _fucking farm-boy_. He had no power, no money, and yet he was able to prevent everyone on earth from being murderously slaughtered! Now, is that still bullshit to you?"

Josh stubbornly avoided his gaze.

"What I said before," Edward stated, "I meant it. Get your head out of your ass and start thinking clearly. If you keep being a prat, you're going to put everyone in serious danger. What with the people hunting you, no one wants that. Do you want that for your sister?"

"You don't understand!" Josh roared, fists clenched.

"You think I don't understand?" Edward shot back. "My father's dead! My mother's dead! My brother's dead! My whole family's dead! I'm the only one left, and the only people I could ever call friends were taken away from me! You don't know how much I want to go back to that time when they were all there! I wanted—I _considered_ bringing them back to life, but I couldn't! No one can! No power on earth can give you that!"

"E-Edward," Josh said, shaking his head and feeling thoroughly sorry for the other blond. "God, I—I had no idea—"

"It's fine," the alchemist said. He closed his eyes to calm his nerves, and also to battle that overwhelming urge to break down and cry. "It's just . . . I've always wanted the ability to return things to normal, but it's impossible. What I wanted to tell you, was that it's so terribly lonely when you're strong. People _fear_ your power. It just drives your love ones away, so please . . . please don't make the same mistake."

Josh's mouth was agape, and he was staring at Edward with a combination of horror and awe.

"Dude," he said. "How _old_ are you?"

Edward sighed. "I'm eighteen."

"You're _older_ than me?"

"Make a joke about my height and I'll kick your ass."

"Sorry. I wasn't going to. It's just . . . wow. That surprised me."

"Yes, _everyone's_ a critic. You don't know how many people have asked me for my age and then suspected me of lying."

"You've lost all your family and friends in the past eighteen years?"

"Do you always ask so many questions?" Edward said.

"Sorry." Josh looked genuinely ashamed. "Sophie says I tend to do that a lot."

_He hasn't seen me at my worst._ "I've been through more hell than just losing family and friends," Edward said. "But we're going to leave it at that. And if you tell anyone about what I've told you, I'll beat you so hard, your past self would feel it and _die _from the shock."

"You have really creative threats," Josh commented, gulping.

"_Practice,_" the Fullmetal Alchemist grounded out.

Josh winced visibly and shrank back. "So," he said tentatively, "you're missing a couple limbs?"

"Yeah, but I'm fine."

"The technology these days, huh? They're pretty advanced now."

"No, I know about today's technology. It's still crap. My friend's stuff were the best around. Still are."

Josh scowled. "You know, just because you've told me some really personal stuff doesn't mean I'm going to start to, let alone forgive you. I still hate your guts."

"I'm fine with that. I don't like you either, by the way."

"Good."

"Okay."

Josh huffed, unwilling to say the next part, but he knew he had to. "I'm sorry, though, for acting like a spoiled brat."

"Eh, you couldn't help it. You'll probably keep doing it. But as long as you've taken what I said into consideration, I've done my part. Now, how about we start heading back? I'm sure your sister is done settling down into her new memories."

"Hey, Ed . . ."

"Hm?" The older blond was standing off about five feet away and looking at his toes. "What is it?"

"Ed, I can't _see_ you."

Edward peered up. "What do you mean you ca . . . Oh, God. I can't see you either."

Josh stood up. "What is this? When was this fog here?"

"It's . . . always been here," Edward said slowly. "Always . . . Dammit, why haven't I noticed this?" He paced quickly towards the direction of Josh's voice. "I noticed this just earlier, but how on earth did it spread so damn fast?"

Josh was shrugging. "Beats me. Do you remember which direction the Witch's house was in?"

"I don't think that matters right now," Edward stated warily.

"What do you mean? We have to get back."

"I know, but I don't think remembering how we got here would help."

"Why's that?"

Now Edward was eyeing his surroundings like an over-PTSD soldier fresh from the warzone. "I'm getting this feeling," he explained, "and I don't like it. Josh, I think we should—"

And then, he heard a sound.

Not just any sound. Someone was yelling.

"Do you hear that?"

"What?" Josh spun around wildly. "What? The shouting, you mean? God, why is it so quiet? It's like no one lives here."

"It's the fog," Edward explained. "It's muffling the sound. But that voice in the distance, it's . . . familiar."

"You think we should head towards it?"

Edward placed a hand on Josh's shoulder before he could advance any further. "Wait," he cautioned. "Just listen for a sec."

Josh reluctantly obeyed, tilting his head to the side in concentration, listening. "What am I supposed to be making out?" he hissed.

But the older blond merely shook his head, a slender finger poised at his lips. _Listen_, he mouthed.

". . . nowhere to run! Oh, Flamel! Are you listening to me? If you come out, I promise not to blow up the shop. I _know_ you're in there, Nicholas. Your aura is leaving a huge trail behind, and it's kind of obvious who you would go to."

Josh was confused. Someone was asking for Flamel, so what? But wait, that voice _did _sound familiar.

"It's him," he whispered.

"No," Edward said, just as faintly.

"What do you mean 'no'? I know it's him, it's D—"

"_No_," Edward said, more forcefully. "No, it can't be him. _It can't be_." He shook his head. "_IT CAN'T BE HIM._"

"Dude, Ed. What's going on?"

"NO!" the alchemist nearly shouted. "No, he should be DEAD! Why is he still alive? Why? Why?" He grabbed Josh by the shoulders, golden eyes boring into blue. "Josh. Tell me. _Who were you talking to earlier_?"

"Uh, it was—"

"He should be dead," Edward told him. "You hear? Never mind that. Get out of here, Josh."

"What?"

"Leave!" Edward ordered. "Leave. Right now."

"Hold on, Ed. What's going on?"

"_He_ was talking to you," Edward said, as if that explained everything. "The smell, Josh. The smell. Didn't you smell it? The sulphur. God, why didn't I notice it before? Of course, it's _his _scent." He quickly composed himself and regarded Josh again. "That doesn't matter. You need to get away right now, before he has the chance to hurt you. Get away from here, and don't look back."

"Wait, what are you going to do?"

Edward didn't answer. The alchemist started walking towards the voice, apparently inadvertent of Josh's decision to leave or stay.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to _kill_ that motherfucker. John Dee will rue the day he _ever_ crossed paths with me."

* * *

><p>Josh Newman watched the other blond dissolve into the fog. He couldn't move. He was glued to the ground.<p>

He didn't want to run away.

Obviously this Edward Elric was more than he let on to be. He knew John Dee, the man who had spoken to him before, the man who promised him power.

And here he was, Edward Elric, the seemingly powerless teenager, approaching Dee with the promise of full-on violence, negligent of the subtle chance that he could lose his life in the process.

Who was he?

Josh had heard of Dee from the books and from history class. From Flamel, he learned just how dangerous Dr. John Dee truly was. Dee obviously had the greater advantage over Elric, so . . .

Who could he trust?

Edward and told him so much about himself in a single conversation, and it seemed he trusted Josh easily. But Josh didn't know how to say the same. One part of him wanted to be friends with Edward, but the other part was still wary. . .

Afraid.

Josh was afraid of Edward, even though Edward had said just how normal he was. And perhaps he was just human. But that didn't mean he was powerless.

Right?

Was he powerless? Was he, Josh, powerless?

He didn't want to be powerless. He wanted to fight. He wanted to do _something_. He _had _to protect Sophie.

_I don't want to do nothing_, he thought. _I can't run. Not today._

Josh marched the way Edward had gone—but not to confront Dee. Instead, he pursued his own path.

He wasn't going to fight with his fists. He knew he lacked the power to do it.

_You don't need power to be strong_.

That was why he was going to protect everyone without it. It would take a long time to find his destination, seeing as his senses were severely undermined in this condition, but if that meant he had to feel his way through the fog, then so be it.

He patted his front pocket.

The car keys were still there.

* * *

><p>The lasts of the strands flowed around her head and dissipated.<p>

The Witch of Endor removed her hands from Sophie's shoulders. "It is done," she declared.

Sophie opened her eyes. Immediately she saw the changes.

Unlike before, the world wasn't so sharp and refined anymore; her vision had returned to normal. When she thought about heightening her sight, her body allowed it, and she was able to control how much she wanted to see at a time.

It was the same with her hearing, touch, smell and taste. And not only that, she was able to remember a past that she never lived through. It was the Witch of Endor's memories. Her experiences, her knowledge, her wisdom . . . They were all there.

"How do you feel?" Scathach asked, edging closer.

"Better," said the girl. "A lot better." She turned to Dora. "Thank you."

Zephaniah bowed her head. "Glad to be of service."

"Is Josh not back yet?" Flamel said. "I don't like how the weather's turning out. It looks too unnatural."

"That's because it is," Sophie said. Everyone looked at her strangely. She was surprised herself. "Oh, I mean, from what I can gather from the Witch of Endor's memories, the fog outside is caused by a magical influence."

"Useful," Scatty remarked.

"That's not good," Flamel hissed. "Do you know what that means? It means that they've found us. Dee's found us!"

"Oh, no," Sophie breathed, unable to keep the horror from her voice. "Josh is still out there! What if he hurt Josh?"

"Edward's out there too," the Witch of Endor murmured. "I seriously hope that idiot boy's gotten himself and Josh away safely. He has the capabilities of defending himself, but Josh doesn't like him too much—they are both prideful boys. Let's just hope Josh listens to Edward."

"He knows Dee?" Flamel inquired.

"I suppose he should, judging by the danger he attracts."

"So he knows _Dee,_ but not _me_? Who _is_ he?"

"I thought rhyming was William's job, Nicholas, not yours."

"We need to get out of here," Scatty reminded them. "Quickly!"

"I agree," Flamel said, looking to the Witch for any signs of agreement. But she ignored him.

"But Josh isn't back yet!" Sophie persisted. "We can't leave without him!"

"If we don't leave, we're all dead!"

"_He's my brother!_"

"Stop arguing!" Scathach yelled. "This isn't the place or time for it!"

"My granddaughter's right," Zephaniah said. "I have a Leygate in a room out back. If we hurry and get Josh back in time, you can all escape that way."

"But—what about Edward?" Sophie said. "We can't leave him either."

"_We_ are not doing anything," said the Witch. "I'm not planning to come with you. Edward will be fine by himself; don't you worry."

But Sophie worried.

"Sophie, you go to the back with Dora," said Nicholas. "Scatty and I will take care of Dee—and provide backup if Elric needs it. We can't afford to lose you after coming this far."

"But I want to fight," Sophie insisted. "Josh is out there. I want to be able to do something now that I've been Awakened. Otherwise it's just useless knowledge."

"Don't argue with me, Sophie. Your safety is the top priority."

"I don't care about th—"

"**Oh, Flamel. You there?**"

All four occupants in the shop froze. The mirrors stopped spinning. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Flamel turned to stone as well, even after centuries of welding his resolve together and _never_ cowering before his fellow immortal. And even though John Dee had hunted him before—and he knew the feeling of being cornered—he couldn't help but shiver at the cold and gleeful tone that was in the English doctor's voice.

"It's him," Sophie murmured. Her voice shook, yet her body was rigid. She needed to be strong for Josh.

What John Dee did back there in Hecate's realm—he had no humanity in him whatsoever. He didn't hesitate to burn Yggdrasil down, he didn't waver under Hecate's intimidation, and he certain didn't like losing. When he did fail, there was every guarantee that he was going to be back to finish the job.

And this time, he was really going to do it.

"I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, FLAMEL!" Dee yelled again. "Stop hiding like a coward! Either way, you're going to die today, I'll take the Codex from you, and the Twins of Legend will be mine!"

"Oh, they _will_ be yours, all right," said the immortal Alchemyst. "They _will_ be yours. But not today."

"What are you thinking, Flamel?" Scathach said.

"I think we give him what he wants."

"You can't be serious."

"No, not that. But we will stand and fight."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Sophie said. She was raring to go.

"Sophie, you're not fighting."

"Yes, _I am_. Josh is out there. He's my brother. And even though it may not seem like it, I am older than him and I have to protect him. He feels lonely because of the priority that was suddenly pushed on him, with our parents gone and all. But he doesn't have to be alone anymore."

"Sophie, I still don't think—"

"Flamel," the Witch warned, shooting him a look.

"Fine. But don't overwork yourself."

"I know Air Magic. I can handle myself," Sophie told him.

"FLAMEL!" Dee screeched. "CAN'T YOU HEAR ME? I am THIS close blowing up the entire store! Get out here RIGHT NOW!"

"He sounds like a jealous wife," Scatty remarked.

Flamel rolled his eyes.

"Should we go?" said Sophie. "Best not keep him waiting right?"

"There's the fog we have to worry about too. I doubt we can see each other."

"That'll be fine to handle," said Scathach. "Just stay together."

"You have nowhere to run!" Dee sang. "Oh, Flamel! Are you listening to me? If you come out, I promise not to blow up the shop. I know you're in there, Nicholas. Your aura is leaving a huge trail behind, and it's kind of obvious who you would go to."

"His singing needs some work," Zephaniah muttered.

"Are you ready?" Nicholas asked Sophie.

The girl gave one firm nod.

"Right. Okay. Everyone—be on constant alert. You never know what kind of allies he's brought with him this time."

And then they all stepped outside.

As the shop door swung shut behind them, they stood still and surveyed the area. There wasn't much too see with the fog cover, but it wasn't what they saw that frightened them. It was the fact that it was eerily calm, as if nothing was possibly wrong, and nothing _could_ go wrong.

"Ah, so you finally decided to show yourself!" Dee barked. "About time! Your audience were getting tired of waiting!"

"What audience?" Sophie muttered. "There's no one here besides us. Don't you hear that? It's quiet."

"Not quite," said Flamel. "I may know just who he brought along with him."

"Who?"

"Ah . . . that's a bit difficult to say."

"Now's not the time," Scatty snapped.

"SHE'S RIGHT, YOU KNOW!" Dee shouted. "You shouldn't be worrying about yourselves—or me, for that matter. I'm intending to sit this one out and watch you all squirm."

"What is he talking about?" Sophie demanded.

The distilled air was suddenly penetrated by an unearthly growl.

"What was _that_?"

"Oh, it looks like you've stumbled across your audience! I'll be watching, Flamel! Don't disappoint me!"

"What is he talking about?" Sophie hissed, more urgently this time.

Flamel swallowed. "Well, that's find out, why don't we?"

"Nicholas . . . !"

There came the growl again.

Followed by another.

Another.

And another.

They were all getting _closer_.

All they could do was stand there, together, and wait for whomever to find them. It was completely against their human nature to _run_. Their legs itched, their stomachs flipped inside out, and sweat dribbled down their brows.

"Sophie," began Flamel, steadily, "I need you to use that Air Magic and dispel the fog. Can you do that?"

"I—I can try," the girl responded. "But I'm not sure how to—"

"You can. And you will. I put my total trust in you."

"Wait, what are you planning to do?"

Flamel sent a nod Scatty's way, and the vampire nodded back. Then she slinked into the fog, disappearing into the thickness.

"Scatty!" Sophie called. "What are you doing?"

"Shh," Flamel said. "She's immortal and capable of fighting. Do not worry about her so much. Instead, concentrate on your Air Magic. The sooner you get rid of the fog, the better."

Sophie swallowed back a lump in her throat. She had no choice but to trust Flamel. Josh had expressed his concerns about the Alchemyst back in Hecate's realm, but they were only two children in this whole world . . . They couldn't do everything by themselves.

"Okay," she said, closing her eyes and splaying her hands.

Awhile later, Nicholas placed a hand on her shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked.

"What is what?"

"You wanted something, right? You touched my shoulder just now."

". . . No, I didn't."

"You . . . didn't? So who touched me?"

"Sophie—!"

She screamed.

"Sophie, calm down!"

She flailed, smacking something hard and squishy in the abdomen. She reeled backward and fell on her bottom, looking up at the horrendous abomination that invaded her private space.

It looked like the living dead. It _was_ the living dead.

"Z-zombie!" she screeched.

From beside her, Nicholas stepped forward and released a bout of his aura into the zombie, prompting it to crumble into black ash. Then he stooped down and helped Sophie to her feet. She was shaking violently.

"It's all right now," he said.

"No, no, it isn't," she said, shaking her head. "What—What was that? Was it . . . going to eat me? Because it looked like it was going to eat me. It—It had decaying flesh—Oh God, it didn't have eyes. Nicholas, it didn't have eyes! It just a black pit of nothing. And why, why . . ." Sophie placed her head in her hands. "Why did it seem like it was crying?"

"Dee's enslaved them," Flamel replied. "They didn't want to do this."

"What _were_ they?" Sophie sobbed.

"The dead, from the graveyard up a block. He is a necromancer, Sophie. He can raise the dead, even though I told him long ago that that wasn't the way of an alchemist. He didn't listen to me. He was _fascinated_, ever since his son was taken away from him . . ."

"I don't—I don't want to do this anymore," Sophie cried. "I can't do this . . ."

"Yes, you can," Flamel insisted. "You can, because your brother is still out there, and he needs you."

"Josh . . . is still . . ."

"Yes. So please, you need to tr—"

There came a shouting in the distance, cursing at Dee.

Then a scream. It sounded like—

"Scatty!" Sophie screamed. "Scatty! That was Scatty, Nicholas. That was her! She's in trouble!"

"I know, I know," said the Alchemyst. "I'll take care of this. You wait here—concentrate! Sophie, you need to concentrate."

"No, don't leave me—"

"Then come with me."

"But I—!"

"It's your choice, Sophie. It doesn't make much of a difference if you choose to stay or leave. You'll be vulnerable here, Sophie, but someone needs to see if Josh comes back."

"Uh—I don't know—I—" Sophie hesitated, caught between going with Flamel and saving Scatty, and staying to calm the fog and waiting for Josh. "I . . ."

"Sophie, we have no time."

"I'll stay!" She pursed her lips, resuming her previous stance. "I'll stay. You go quickly. I'll be here, working on clearing the air."

"You sure?"

"Yes," she said with the most determination. "Go—hurry! I'll figure it out, don't worry about me."

With one last backward glance, Flamel waded into the fog.

Sophie was alone.

Somehow, just somehow, it was quiet again. Dee had stopped jeering at them. It seemed inconsistent with his behavioural patterns—but she brushed them aside. Flamel had said he was unpredictable. However, it was not only that—but everything else became erratic. There was also no more growling. No yelling. No screaming. No Josh.

She never felt so alone in her life.

* * *

><p><strong>Uh. That took a while to write. I hope you enjoyed it. Also, I've changed the way the chapters are arranged so there's more room for title naming. I feel like Roman numerals are far more cooler than the average boring "Chapter blah-blah-blah". <strong>

**Review, please! If you want to read both parts before you do, that's totally fine with me!**

**Fun Fact: The Russian farm-boy bit up there is a half-truth. It came from an original fact I read, but I mixed it around to my preference. The 'farm-boy' was actually in the Russian military, being a former farm-boy. Everyone thought the Americans were going to attack, but he didn't believe it and called back the submarines. He did, in fact, prevent a full-out nuclear war between the two countries.**


	17. XVII: Crossroads of Fate PT 3

**Here is part 2!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own SINF and/or FMA.**

* * *

><p>The yelling was getting louder, even in the dense fog.<p>

Edward knew he was getting closer. His auto-mail itched to punch Dee in the face. It didn't matter if he couldn't _feel_ it. He could certainly see it happen, couldn't he? That was good enough for him.

Heck, why shouldn't he just use his left arm?

Dee was still yelling insults at Flamel. The sound of his voice jarred Edward's teeth in an unpleasant way.

Dr. John Dee—Edward dropped the title whenever referring to him—had known his father previously. The first time Edward met him was in Barcelona, when he was travelling with Alphons. Dee presented himself as a fellow scientist who also dabbled in the alchemic arts. However, the first thing Dee had said made him hate the English doctor for life. And their first meeting did not go down well.

Ever since then, the young alchemist had been encountering the Englishman all over the globe. Edward was getting tired of seeing him. The first year was spent being irritated by the doctor, and then the following year he turned seventeen, he started detesting the man altogether.

You could say they were scientific rivals.

However, when he sabotaged one of Alphons Heidrich's rockets, that pushed Edward over the edge. Now all he wanted to do was kill Dee on sight and make sure he lived through what he put those poor workers through.

There were no survivors. The warehouse burned to the ground.

And he watched. The damned monster _watched_.

Unfortunately, the last time Edward had seen of Dee was 88 years ago, in Vienna, and the doctor had pierced Edward's good shoulder with a sword. Hohenheim dragged his injured son out of the church, while Edward was slowly being bled to death. Since Dee was a coward, he escaped before the officials could get their hands on him.

The idea of _Dee_ being immortal enraged him.

But how could he not see it?

He read about the original Dr. John Dee. He thought it was a simply a namesake, but he should have suspected it. Of course Dee would be immortal. He was too ambitious, and his reason for immortality explained why he hated the world so much.

Dee should have _died_ 88 years ago.

His second-last encounter with Dee left the Englishman incapacitated. That was why he _happened_ to encounter Edward in Vienna. He wasn't just there on business—he wanted revenge. And Edward had fallen for it.

Treading through the fog now, Edward subconsciously rubbed his left shoulder with his right hand. The auto-mail couldn't feel anything, but his shoulder still stung a bit when he touched it.

He didn't know if it was from his previous injury—his father said that it would take at least six months to properly heal; well, seven, seeing as Edward couldn't seem to stay in bed for more than a week—his auto-mail rehabilitation was a prime example, but it was also an exception—or if it was his instincts going haywire. Of course, it'd only been two months—not chronologically—so he was still in pain when he lifted heavy things.

He had to blame his paranoia too. The weather wasn't helping to alleviate his aching joints either.

The fog density caused the light to be blocked out. It was dark, but it wasn't night. If it was, then the darkness couldn't even penetrate the fog. Imagine that all you could see were wispy veils of white and grey. Imagine that the sky didn't exist in this world, and the ground you were standing upon was tar black.

Now imagine that you couldn't even see yourself in this fog, or even hear yourself speak.

This is what it felt like.

All he had were his thoughts and his sanity.

"This is pissing me off," Edward growled low in his throat. "Where the hell are you, Dee?"

The Englishman wasn't intending on giving his presence away. He had cleverly shut up a while ago, and Edward had no leads to his position. All the blond had were his senses, the overwhelming urge to murder Dee, and his Alchemy.

Unfortunately, he couldn't utilize his Alchemy properly without being able to see his target. If only he could transmute the fog . . .

The atoms were too small for him to handle. If this world had Alchemy in the first place, he would have dedicated his life to perfecting the science. And if he could have, he would have been able to dispel the fog easily.

He was a genius, but this was beyond him.

It was _frustrating_, to think, he could've easily figured something like this out.

It was then he realized he wasn't alone. A collective of growls and sickening gurgles penetrated the air, sending his nerves into a frenzy. Edward spun around in the spot several times, hands held up in a defensive gesture, making sure no one could sneak up behind him and deliver a sneak-attack.

Sweat slid down the side of his temple. His eyes darted to the left, and then the right—but _he couldn't see anything_.

He broke his stance for a moment to wipe at his forehead, and through his peripherals, he saw something dark and raggedy jump at his back.

It didn't matter if it was Dee, Flamel, or a rabid animal. He needed to hit _somebody_.

Edward swung around, bringing his metal fist with him. The auto-mail connected with the face and smashed in the skull, the flesh caving inwards and warping the features. The body twisted backward and fell to the ground, various bones in the body breaking on impact. Of course, when Edward bent down to examine what he hit, he realized it didn't matter what form of torture he supplied the body.

Whatever this thing was, it was already beyond recognizable.

The corpse—he surmised—was already decaying. He wasn't even punching that hard, but it came out worse because of its soft flesh. It looked as if someone dug it up fresh from the graveyard, added strings, and proceeded to handle it like a puppet.

Now, Edward wondered angrily, who was the idiot to play with the dead like this? Did they have no respect at all?

"_Dee_," he spat. "_I'll kill you_."

The corpse twitched, its broken limbs rattling. Was it still trying to get back up and finish the job?

"You're crying," the alchemist murmured mournfully. "Oh, I am so, so sorry."

It moaned pitifully.

"You don't have to suffer anymore," he promised.

He brought his hands together in a clap, and then touched the undead on its forehead. It started deconstructing downwards from that point, its flesh turning into black ash and disappearing into the atmosphere.

Edward stood, vowing to avenge these poor souls.

He was _done_ showing mercy. After the atrocities Dee had committed, he had had enough. He was _done_ playing the good guy. He was done making the right choices and doing it for the world's sake—because he never got to make choices from his benefit, for his own selfish reasons!

Who cares if the world burned while he beat Dee to a bloody pulp? All he wanted was to make him feel the same way he'd made all those civilians feel . . .

"DEE, YOU BASTARD!" he shouted, not caring about the fact that he'd just compromised his presence.

He _wanted_ Dee to know he was still alive. _He wanted Dee to fear him_.

"WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, JACKASS," Edward swore, "I'M GOING TO FUCKING TEAR YOU LIMB-FROM-LIMB AND HANG IT FOR YOUR FUCKING ELDERS TO SEE! DO YOU REMEMBER ME? YOU SHOULD REMEMBER MY VOICE, YOU POMPOUS ASS! BECAUSE I'M THE ONE THAT GAVE YOU THAT MONSTROUS SCAR, AND ONE THING THAT YOU SHOULD ALWAYS, _ALWAYS_ REMEMBER:

"_**YOU. DO. NOT. MESS. WITH. ME.**_"

A herd of the undead pounced at him. Using the skill of an ex-military officer, Edward fought them off with a flurry of kicks and punches. Corpses had a surprising agility and elasticity. One jumped at Edward from an impossible height, mouth opened too wildly to be considered human, screeching like a banshee.

Edward retaliated with a flip backwards and kicking the corpse in midair, sending it careening into another body behind him. The two tangled together in a mass of appendages, all of them having broken when they collided with each other.

The same sequence continued for seemingly forever, until a distressed scream broke the routine.

Edward turned towards the sound. Wrong move, however—a corpse flew at him and bit into his arm. Edward shook it off easily and used the same arm to knock its head off. Before it was defeated, did it realize that it bit into auto-mail?

Probably not.

"Who was that?" he said.

Did Flamel and the others manage to get themselves into the fight? God, he didn't need the help! He was perfectly fine on his own. Now, he had to worry about getting Dee, and also about the safety of the idiots that decided to intervene. Were they _asking_ for trouble?

No time. They had each other—which was all that mattered. He couldn't afford to worry about them; he had his own priority, and the single one being the most important.

Suddenly, an idea sprang into his mind.

He couldn't clear the fog, but maybe he could set a preliminary trap if he did catch Dee.

While still fighting the undead and deconstructing them, Edward ran around in a wide arc and made sense of the area, eventually stopping and transmuting a circle into the gravel. He beat down the last of the undead, and then paused.

He sat down, cross-legged, and started to meditate.

He hadn't known Dee for a long time, but from all the skirmishes he had with the English doctor, he came to the conclusion that this man was a coward. And cowards usually hid someplace away from the fight, where they could watch and gather statistics on the battle.

Now, back in the Washington Stronghold, he once watched his father work away at a new transmutation circle he'd recently adapted. He talked about Dee, their common enemy, and how the man had corrupted the science of Alchemy. Edward didn't know what he meant exactly back then, but now he was pretty sure.

Hohenheim had said that the only way to defeat the doctor was to force onto him what he chose not to believe, what he twisted, what he _should_ have learned, but chose not to go by.

And that was the secret of Alchemy.

It was true you couldn't create something from nothing, but every single thing in this universe was connected. It took Hohenheim himself a long time to figure it out, but when he did, that was when he'd received the title 'Hohenheim of Light'.

Light itself was intangible, unbendable, except when faced with a wormhole. But it was still made of particles. Everything in the universe was made out of atoms, and that's why everything was connected.

It took Edward a while to realize that, but now he knew what to do, his father's newest alchemical array bright in his mind.

The alchemist retracted from his position and got up, heading towards the area when he heard Dee's voice last. His impeccable memory was self-admitted; he couldn't remember everything he read or heard, but they stuck if he decided they were important and chose to call on them.

As he got farther away from the point of origin of the fog, the air started clear up, and he was able to see the outlines of the street's buildings. Pretty soon, he found himself in daylight once again. The sky was so offensively blue.

Like he suspected, Dee was sitting down at the park he'd just been at with Josh, and the doctor was drinking _tea_.

Edward advanced towards Dee, his rage intensifying until he reached him. It was barely containable as he presented himself to the Briton.

"Stop this, Dee," Edward demanded.

The Doctor peered over his tea cup. "Oh? And who are you, young man?"

As an answer, Edward transmuted his auto-mail blade. Dee became alarmed and stood up, his teacup rattling on its plate.

"Who are you?" Dee repeated.

"Don't tell me you don't remember me," Edward said. He held the blade to the Doctor's throat. "THINK FOR A MINUTE. Who do you think I am?"

"You're . . . You're the one that called out for me earlier, didn't you?"

"Bullshit," Edward spat. "_Look me in the eye and tell me you don't recognize my face._"

Dee squinted, leaning towards the blond, and then he snapped backward so fast, he tripped over the bench.

"Your . . ." the Englishman spluttered. "Your eyes! They're . . . _Edward Elric_? But you're supposed to be—"

"DEAD!" Edward screamed, swinging his blade forward. "AND SO ARE YOU!"

Dee dodged for his life, which he technically was. "H-hold on," he said. "Wait a moment. Edward, my dear boy, stop this madness at once. I do not want to fight you!"

"Shut the hell up," Edward shouted. "Don't 'My dear boy' me, you asshole. I'll going to end this once and for all so you could never hurt anyone ever again!"

"Hold on _just a moment_! How can you be _here_? Are you immortal?"

"NO! I WOULD NEVER STOOP AS LOW AS YOU!"

Then something hardened in Dee's eyes, and he sprung forward, batting aside Edward's blade and knocking him off his feet. Then, flinging his aura outward, he twisted the earth around Edward's arms, forcing him to his knees. Dee moved the coils of earth apart, so Edward couldn't use his Alchemy, rendering the blond immobile.

Edward glared up at the Doctor. He cursed inwardly. With his hands wide apart, he couldn't perform a transmutation.

Going batshit insane was a stupid idea. He should have thought his encounter with Dee out sooner, instead of charging in like a Leeroy Jenkins on steroids. But, God, he was so mad. He didn't want to think things out.

"I thought you've become immortal by an Elder's means and finally joined our side," Dee spoke, peering at Edward intriguingly. "But apparently you've found your own way of attaining immortality. Tell me, how did you come by it? Did Flamel give you the secret?"

"There is no _secret_," Edward said. "I'm not fucking immortal, dumbass. I didn't even meet Flamel until half an hour ago."

John Dee tilted his head to the side. "Really? Then, which side do you choose? His or mine?"

"Mine?" Edward said wryly. He barked a laugh. "Don't you mean _theirs_? You're being used, Dee."

The English Doctor smiled. "Well, for now."

"I'm on nobody's side," the alchemist said. "None of you are worth my time, and since I'm not immortal, I'd rather be spending my time on the more trivial things."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice." Dee stepped forward and produced his cane—which he brought with him almost everywhere—and laid the bottom side on Edward's shoulder. "Hm, now, let me remember . . . If I do recall correctly, I ran you through with a sword, didn't I?"

Edward glared. "Go to hell."

Dee smirked. "Yes, right, yes I did. And if I do recall correctly, I pierced your flesh right . . . here, didn't I?" The Doctor placed his cane right under the crook of Edward's neck, the area right to the top left of the heart from first person's perspective. "Tell me, Edward boy . . . How long has it been since the injury?"

"Eighty-eight years."

"Do you take me for a fool, you buffoon?" Dee snapped. "I know it hasn't been that long. There is absolutely no way you've obtained immortality, so you couldn't have just lived through all those years!" He leaned in towards Edward, making the blond shiver as his whispers brushed the boy's ear. "You've gone through the gates, haven't you?"

Edward's eyes widened.

Dee smiled. "Ah, yes. Did an Elder guide you through? If you had gone alone, you wouldn't have made it."

The alchemist didn't answer. He was frozen in his restraints.

"That doesn't really matter, though," the Doctor continued. "I'll save that discussion for later, when I bring you to my masters for questioning. But for now . . . If my memory serves me right, I'd say it's been only, hmm, three months since our last encounter? That's another three months short of recovering from such an injury, isn't it?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Edward drawled, unafraid. "Is it because you're still worked up about Denmark? Come on, I'm sure the scar has faded a bit these past few decades, right?"

Dee narrowed his eyes. "You dare bring that up?" he growled menacingly.

"_You_ suggested it."

The English Doctor clenched his jaw. "Haven't I taught you to think about who you're dealing with every time we've had our disputes?"

"Sure I have. But I would have chosen to listen a long time ago, and I haven't. So you see, 'teaching' me to analyze my opponent's level compared to mine is like asking me to spare you."

That was it. Dee's composure crumbled at the last stab at his pride.

His cane still hovering above Edward's injury, he drove it into his shoulder.

Edward screamed in pain. Realizing that Dee was only doing this to break him, he quickly bit down on his tongue and swallowed back his cries.

The Doctor retaliated by pressing deeper and deeper into the boy's wound until the thin tissue around the wound broke open. Blood quickly spread across Edward's shirt.

"You should count yourself lucky," Dee hissed. "Back then, I purposely avoided your heart. And do you know why?"

The cane dug deeper. Tears sprung into Edward's eyes.

"It's because I can save you for a later time when I can see you _drown in your sufferings and watch as you BEG to be let freed_."

Edward gagged as blood collected in his throat. Dee quickly retracted his cane from his shoulder. A sick splurging sounded as the bloodied cane left the wound. New blood poured from it as the body's only plug disappeared.

"Fortunately, I don't want you dead just yet," he said. "Please wait here for me. I'll be back after I've taken care of the pests. It's high time I've stopped playing around with them, wouldn't you agree?"

Dee bent down and touched Edward's restraints, transmuting them back to the earth they were once before. Edward collapsed like a lifeless doll as the only things holding him up left him solitary. He was sprawled all over the grass, right arm clutching at his wound.

"Alchemy is such a useful thing, isn't it?" Dee said, returning Edward's knife to its original state so that he wouldn't proceed to swing it around. "Transmutation is the most powerful form, you know."

Edward glared at him._ Is he trying to mock me_?

"Oh, don't look at me like that. You can't seriously expect yourself to play hero 24/7, can you? And don't even think about running. You wouldn't even make a mile until I've found you. Ta-ta, then!" The Doctor started walking away, sending Edward a backward wave.

"You can't—" Edward tried to say, but the blood choked him. He forced it down and swallowed to clear his voice. "You can't bring back the dead, Dee! No matter what you think, your boy won't come back!"

Dee froze.

"Let them go," Edward said. "It's me you want, isn't it? Don't you think I'd be a more valuable prize than them? Please, just let them go—just this once. And then you can go back to hunting them again."

"Why," said Dee softly. "Why just this once? What makes this time any different?"

"Th—"

"Mr. Elric!" Dee snapped. "My masters are tired of my failings. They will not tolerate a second time! Besides," he said, more quietly, "if I captured you, you would try and escape. The difference between you and them is: _They can't._"

And then the Englishman melded into the fog.

A frustrated sob escaped Edward's lips. He kicked at the ground and yelled at the sky. It was so, so mocking—so blue and clear, like it was reminding him of what he could've had, and shoving what he _didn't_ have in his face.

His shoulder hurt so much. He wanted to curl into a ball and cry. Of all people, he wanted his brother here with him. Al always had his back.

_It's so lonely trying to be strong_, he thought. _It just drives everyone away. I wonder if that's why Dee is the way he is_.

He couldn't give up. Not like this.

He would gladly renounce his life the day his heart slowed down due to old age, when he'd discovered all he could and invented the entire world's machinery. That was the day he'd give up and die.

"But not today, _dammit_!" he said.

Edward pushed himself up. He clapped his hands and, gritting his teeth to prepare himself for the onslaught of pain, transmuted the broken tissue back around his wound, closing it. Resisting the urge to faint, Edward stumbled across the park and back into the fog.

His head pounded and his legs felt so heavy—both legs, not just his metal one. He had lost a lot of blood, and just because he'd closed his wound, it didn't mean he was healed. All the muscle in his shoulder had been torn apart. He could barely move his arm.

But he pushed himself on. He wouldn't let those people die because of his own incompetence. Flamel could take care of himself, but Sophie was still vulnerable. Hopefully Josh had heeded his advice and run away by now.

"Dee!" he called hoarsely into the gloom. "Dee, dammit, answer me, you bastard!"

Silence.

"Leave them alone!" Edward shouted. "This doesn't have to be between you and them! Dee, you can lie and say to your masters that you haven't seen us! Please, listen to me. Just this once—LET THEM GO!"

"Edward?"

"What? Sophie?"

"Elric?"

"Flamel? What—?"

"And me too," Scatty added.

Edward came across Flamel's group. Everyone was there, and none of them seemed hurt, except maybe seriously spooked out.

"Edward, what . . . ?" Sophie caught sight of the blood all over his front. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God! Is that blood? You're hurt, Edward!"

"I'm fine," he said, waving off her concerns. "There are more pressing matters to address. Have any of you seen Dee?"

They shook their heads.

Edward cursed. "All right, then. I guess I'll have to play my other card."

"What card?"

"The secret of Alchemy."

"What's . . . ?" Flamel started, but he wasn't given the chance to finish.

"Josh isn't back yet, right?"

"No, but what does that have to do w—"

"Good. Then he's probably doing what I think he's doing."

Without giving them a chance to ask more, Edward started forward, stumbling like a drunkard while he did so. He headed into the eye of the storm, where he had previously transmuted the trap circle.

"Dee," he said calmly, "I know you're there."

He gave it a moment before continuing.

"I also know you're trying to hide yourself by staying quiet, but it won't work. Do you want to know why?" Edward stared down at his hands. "I know you're listening, Bastard Doctor, and I want you to know that you've got some balls to screw Alchemy over so much. That's why you're a coward."

A muffled retort came from his left.

Edward spared himself a smile. But his stance wavered, and his smile became somewhat twisted and pained. He couldn't faint. Not here.

"You think you know about Alchemy," he continued, voice firm. "But you know _nothing_. Transmutation, the most powerful form of Alchemy? Ha, DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH!" He clapped his hands and splayed those outwards. "_Human Transmutation_ is the most powerful type! It's physically impossible to achieve! But you know what's the most powerful _form_?"

There came a "What?" from beside him. It was much closer than last time. If he could get Dee close enough to be within the trap circle's boundaries . . .

"Comprehension," Edward called. "You must understand the composition of the material before you transmute it! It's important if you want to keep your transmutation from crumbling!"

"But that's not—"

"Deconstruction," he announced next. "The process of breaking down the material. If you let it get out of hand, you destroy more than you intend to. It's very dangerous and hard to handle. _That's_ why Alchemy cannot be done without a circle!

"And finally, reconstruction! After you break down the material, you rebuild the elements into what you want. All this takes place in a blink of an eye, and some alchemists never even think about what they've done. What do _you_ think you should do, Dee?"

"This is—"

"You _fucking think about it_."

"Elric!"

Edward ignored him. "This is what we call 'transmutation'. Now let me ask you, Bastard Doctor, out of these three processes, which one is the most powerful?"

"Elric, you shut up right n—"

"WRONG!" the alchemist snapped. "Of course you don't know. Why would I expect you to? You left Flamel before he could teach it to you! You have such a huge ego, Dee, it's not wonder you keep failing."

"How do you know abou—?"

"I have more than just Alchemy," Edward said. "I have the _whole world_. You see, that's the little secret I want to share with you. Let me ask you again: WHICH IS THE MOST POWERFUL?"

Before Dee could answer, Edward started up his transmutation.

"I'll tell you." A pause. "Bastard Doctor—it's _deconstruction_."

The reaction was instantaneous. The deconstruction process started around the circumference of Edward's area, and then it expanded outwards in a circle, effectively erasing anything getting in its way from existence.

As Edward planned, the deconstruction cleared up the fog completely, showering the street with daylight and proceeding to obliterate the remaining undead. Unfortunately, because he had lost a lot of blood and that type of transmutation was new to him, the remaining portion of his energy diminished dramatically. Edward struggled to maintain consciousness as his world tilted.

As the overcast cleared, Dee was fully exposed.

Edward turned on him, eyes burning. "I got you."

The Doctor started backing away.

"It takes many, many atrocities to level with what you've done to these dead," Edward said, advancing on Dee. "And I must say how impressed I am. It takes skill to cross such a thin line." He smirked. "Now prepare to pay for it."

"What did you do?" Dee screamed. "You couldn't have cleared the fog—it's impossible! My aura was supplying it!"

In the background, Flamel watched on in wretched fascination as Edward produced a blade from his arm. His golden eyes were glowing.

"_Oh_," he breathed. "Why didn't I see this before? His eyes . . ."

"What?" Sophie said. "What is it?"

"I can't believe it," Flamel continued. "God, it's _him_. Of _course_ it's him. He's the brother of . . . Oh, Elric. No wonder it was familiar."

"Who?"

"It's him. That's the boy with no aura. He saved all our lives on the Golden Gate Bridge."

Sophie's jaw dropped. "Edward? He's the one?"

"Yes. And he's come back to do it again."

Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist, was pointing his knife at Dee. "Chain reactions," he simply said. "Does that clear everything up?"

Dee had the courage to shake his head.

"'Everything in the Universe is connected'," he said, quoting his father. "That's the secret to long-ranged and airborne Alchemy. Of course, I need to work on my efficiency, but that was a one time thing, so it's all right.

"Don't you know? You can make your transmutation bounce off of atoms and effectively connect them if you tune your inner energy precisely. It's like adjusting the pitch of sound to make glass shatter. It's actually pretty simple if you think about it long enough . . . Of course you can't, right? Because all you'd ever do is see your son's face if you try."

Dee's face screwed up into the perfect picture of agony and wrath. "How could you know all this?" he said.

"I told you," Edward said, spreading his arms, "I have the whole world."

"You're mad."

"No. I _actually_ do have the whole world." Well, knowledge-wise. (Haha, knowledge-wise. That's so ironic.)

"That's a load of bull and you know it," Dee said. "You know nothing about me!"

The English Doctor shot towards him, cane raised, but Edward easily dodged it to the side. He made it so that he got Dee closer and closer to the trap circle. But the Doctor didn't seem to realize that. He was genuinely angry at Edward for bringing up the delicate subject of his son.

Then when Dee managed to nick Edward on his injured shoulder, the blond gasped with pain and teetered to the side, Dee took this moment to finish him off. But he didn't expect Sophie to summon forth a hurricane and sweep him off his feet.

"Get him, Edward!" she shouted.

Disorientated for a second, Dee didn't see Edward come to him and punch him out of the whirlwind, causing him to bounce and roll into the trap circle.

"Do you understand why I was running around this whole time?" Edward said. It was really a miracle he could still stand.

Dee groaned, getting back on his feet. Great, his custom-tailored Italian suit was ruined.

"This," Edward explained, bending down and activating the circle. A blue glow took the place of the markings, lightning dancing within its borders. Dee started to sink into the ground. "I could have easily lopped your head off, but then I decided if I killed you, some kind of global war would start, and none of us need that. Reluctant to admit, you're an important and influencial man."

"Let me go, Elric!" Dee hollered.

Edward shook his head. "Sorry, no can do."

Dee was up to his torso now. He stuck out his hand and chanted a magical word. Suddenly, the remaining undead on the ground that Flamel and the others had defeated rose upward and closed in on them.

"No time, Elric, for you to save them. They're done for."

There were too many undead to count. He was too weak to get there in time. Flamel and the Shadow couldn't possibly fend them off effectively like this. They couldn't know that the only way to properly defeat the dead was to completely obliterate their bodies. But Dee . . . He had to keep Dee from escaping.

_What should I do_?

And then there came a whirring sound. A mechanical whirring sound. The ear-grating squeal of tires. A honk, beeping consistently.

Edward sighed in relief. "God, I thought he'd never show up."

Dee's face showed utter confusion. He didn't expect his enemies to have backup.

Whooping and hooting with ecstasy, Josh Newman drove into the scene like a mad-man, running over the undead with the van. The force of the impact caused the different body parts of the undead to dismember themselves, the hood of the vehicle to cave in, and it totally ruined the windshield with glass flying every-which-way—but that was all right.

It was Dee's car, anyway.

"It's about time!" Edward said to Josh as Dee sank up to his neck.

Josh shut the car door as he got out. "Sorry, man, it took a while for me to find the van. But after the fog cleared up, I quickly climbed in and got down here as fast as I could. Nothing too significant happened while I was gone, right?"

"Uh." Edward glanced at Dee. "Uhm, I wouldn't say, no."

"Awesome. Hold on—is that blood on your shirt?"

"I'm fine," Edward insisted with a smile. "Not all of it is mine anyway. Some of the zombie guts got on me."

"That's nasty."

"Yeah, I know."

"I'M STILL HERE!" Dee said. "You can't keep me trapped here forever, Elric!"

"I don't give a damn," Edward spat in his face. "I could sink you fully for all I care."

"Dude, what is this?" Josh said, poking his toe at the trap circle. "You've been drawing?"

Edward clapped his hands and held them to the circle, erasing the sigils. "Not anymore. Don't want humans to get the wrong idea."

"You'll pay for this!" Dee yelled.

Edward kicked him in the head with his metal leg. "Shut the fuck up already, damn it. I don't owe you anything. As far as I'm concerned, you're the one who's way over his head in debt."

"The Leygate's ready!" the Witch of Endor yelled out to them, her head sticking out her shop door. "Hurry up before he frees himself!"

Scathach turned and headed inside first. Edward had his eyes locked onto Flamel's as he approached the door. His hand was poised keeping the door open, but he didn't enter. The Alchemyst didn't move either. Josh ran over to Sophie and the two siblings happily embraced.

"I'm so glad you're okay," said Sophie. "I don't know what I'd do if you died."

"I'm just glad you're still not moaning in pain," Josh said. "It's really annoying."

Sophie punched him in the arm. "Don't you ever worry me like that again."

"Sophie, I don't know why you're worried. Obviously you've got that Air Magic down. Nice going, by the way."

"What are you talking about? _You_ saved us, Josh. And without magic, too."

Inwardly, Josh felt his heart do a joyful leap. Edward had told him that one didn't need power to be strong, and he was right. He was proud of his accomplishment, whether it be a selfish claim or not. He was glad he was able to protect his sister, that's all.

The two entered the store, switching stories. Edward and Flamel seemed engaged in an intense staring contest, neither of them speaking for a while. In the background, Dee was having a hard time freeing himself. In the end he had to resort to softening the road around him using his aura, but he wasn't quite there yet.

If he didn't get out fast enough, his prey would get away . . . !

"You and I need to have a talk," Nicholas said to Edward.

The blond turned and looked back at the struggling Englishman.

"_You've gone through the gates, haven't you?"_

"Yeah," he agreed wearily. "Maybe one day."

Flamel clasped the youth by the shoulder and led him inside. The two wandered around the shop for a bit before arriving in the Witch's Leygate room. The extravagant mirror that Edward saw his first night here shimmered brightly.

"So it really has been a Leygate this whole time, huh?" he said.

"What did you think it was?" Zephaniah said.

Edward tilted his head, rubbing at his manually-stitched up wound. "I just thought . . . it looked familiar back then. I haven't really seen a real Leygate before except for in the texts. My father didn't let me near one, but I had suspected we had some, because people often came and went without entering our stronghold."

"Yes, well, you need to get going, Edward."

"Me? No, I'm staying here and making sure Dee doesn't follow."

"Edward," Dora said firmly. "You _have_ to go. I'm not giving you a choice."

"Crazy Lady, I'm not letting Dee get away again. Vienna was the last straw for me—he needs to be locked up for good!"

"You don't understand, Idiot Boy!" she said angrily, surprising Edward. "Dee would escape anyway, regardless of how well his binds are. You _need_ to go to Paris. It's the last stop of your journey before all the roads of Fate have crossed."

"What are you talking about?"

The Witch pushed Edward toward the Leygate. "Get going. The Twins and Scathach are already on the other side, waiting for you." She nodded at Flamel, and the Alchemyst returned it.

"Wait, hold on," Edward said, seeming to get the message. "You're not coming with us? But Dee will—"

"Dee is a child; he cannot possibly harm me. Trust me, he has tried. Edward, I am thousands of years old. I can handle myself."

Flamel grabbed onto Edward's arm. "She's right. Come on. We have to get going."

"But I can't just leave you here, after everything you've done for me," Edward protested. "I can't just leave without giving—"

A crash came from the front of the store, followed by the shattering of glass.

"Dee's already here," the Witch said, pushing them toward the gate. "You need to leave right now. I don't care about your damned Equivalence—you can pay me back _after_ you get out of here alive. This is no time to be showing gratitude, Idiot Boy. We're supposed to hate each other."

"But . . ."

Zephaniah looked at the boy and smiled. He seemed so young and helpless at the moment, the opposite of what he was trying to appear this whole time. But even the best actor couldn't fool her; after living thousands of years, you came to know a few things.

"I've made sure that Dee cannot follow," continued the Witch. "Someone needs to be here to set it off, so you two hurry and go."

Realization slowly dawned on Edward, and he struggled against Flamel's strong arms, but he was being effectively subdued. Edward reached for Dora; he couldn't let her do this alone. Not after all she'd done for him.

"You can't be serious!" he said. "No, you can't!"

"I'll be fine," she insisted.

"Let me go," Edward said to Flamel. "I'm not done with Dee yet. I can't possibly let you face him by yourself!"

"Edward," she said. "Go."

"NO—!" he tried to scream, but was pulled into the Leygate at the last minute.

His vision warped and swam, and then he was none-too-gently deposited on the other side of the Leygate. They landed in some sort of lit-up hallway where the dust drifted around in thick proportions. It reminded Edward of the stronghold back in Washington.

He released himself from Flamel's grasp and scrambled over to the Leygate, head pounding from the trip as well as the rush of adrenaline that used blood he couldn't give. Added to the fact he was missing two limbs, he didn't have much blood mass to begin with.

Edward blinked rapidly, holding onto the sides of the Leygate, wanting so much to jump through again and help Dora.

He watched on helplessly as Dee entered the gate room, hands flaming with his yellow aura. The Witch had turned around, back facing the Leygate, talking with the Englishman. Something like fear flashed through the Doctor's eyes, and he swiftly ran out like his life depended on it.

Dora faced the mirror again, smiling at Edward.

_I'll be fine_, she said, and left the room.

"No!" Edward said, pounding his good arm against the gate. "No, don't do this!"

Not a second later, the room erupted into flames. For a moment, Edward saw only crimson flames. And then the Leygate on the other side turned to clear water, erasing the two-way image.

Edward watched as his side of the Leygate cracked. He saw only the broken image of himself as the gate fell to pieces before him, the glass reverting back to the crystalline mirror it once was before.

Deep down, he felt like he'd really been broken.

Edward bowed his head, hands still gripping the now-empty frame of the Leygate. His body trembled. He was only barely holding on to consciousness—but he couldn't help but get worked up over what happened.

He let Dee get away.

And Dora . . .

Without thinking, he brought his hands together into a clap and was ready to transmute the pieces of the broken mirror back together, but his hands were grabbed by Flamel.

The Alchemyst was shaking his head firmly. Edward barely registered this as his vision blurred behind angry tears.

"You can't, Edward," Nicholas was saying, giving the teen one hard jerk. "The law of Alchemy, son. You must abide by it, or you will end up paying a heavy price. The mirrors have been broken; you cannnot reconnect severed Ley lines. "

"But she—" he started to protest, sounding as if he was trying his best to keep the grief at bay.

"_No_. You're not thinking straight, Edward. You've been hurt. We need to treat you."

"I can't just—"

"Oh, shut up for once, will you? Don't argue with me, boy, I'm older than you by a good six hundred years. You're going to collapse into a coma if we don't give you the proper medical attention. Trust me, the hospitals are well-equipped. They can't hurt you."

"Leave me alone," Edward muttered bitterly. "When I say hospitals suck, it means they suck."

"Yes, but I was there once eighty-eight years ago, remember? When I say you'll be fine, you'll be fine."

The teenager glared at the Alchemyst. His anger from the countless revelations of that day was currently being directed all at Flamel. From Dee being alive, to the physical torture he was put through. His mind was muddled and hazy; he couldn't seem to get one straight sentence out because his head was pounding so hard.

There was only so much he could take.

Before he realized it, one tear fell, sliding down his cheek, hot and stinging. Then the rest came after, like a previously built emotional dam had just been taken down.

Edward couldn't help it.

He placed his head in his hands and wept.

* * *

><p>He had failed.<p>

Him, Dr. John Dee, failed. For the second time.

Clothes smoking and eyebrows singed, he stood outside with a bunch of police officers and fire fighters, answering inquiries to how the fire started and where it originated from. He responded to the best he could—without giving too much away. He lied, saying that he was walking by the store when it suddenly exploded.

Officials were blaming it on a gas leak.

Dee had truthfully told the officers that he didn't know if anyone was inside the store at the time. For all he knew, the Witch of Endor had escaped and somehow survived the blast.

She was clever and had survived many life-or-death encounters before. She was resilient—actually, he was pretty sure she'd survived. The only reason she blew up her beloved store was to secure Flamel and party's getaway. She didn't care if she was caught in the middle of it, or if anyone died because of it. In fact, Dee had a feeling she knew he would be in proximity the moment the explosive went off.

Dee cursed.

The Twins were gone.

The Codex was still incomplete.

The Witch of Endor, Zephaniah, was still alive.

Flamel was still alive.

And much to his chagrin, Edward Elric _was still alive_.

The last person definitely added a block to his plans. However, like all blocks, he would overcome them. Elric was definitely a big block—humungous, even—but it wouldn't be too long before the youth's resolve shattered. After what transpired today, Dee was pretty sure Elric was close to breaking.

He smiled. Perhaps he hadn't failed after all.

Wouldn't his masters be glad to learn of Edward's existence? If somehow he could be captured, then the Elder's could utilize his skills to their own gain, and Elric wouldn't be problem at all.

Yes. He had to present this idea fast, before his masters decided to smite him.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, that's that! <strong>

**Poor Ed. He's been through so much. He's not thinking right with the blood loss and such, added to the fact he's seen so many horrible things in his young life . . . Cut him some slack, guys.**

**However, he's not ****_that_**** easy broken. Except maybe if his little brother is being used as leverage. Hope that doesn't happen.**

**Review away!**

* * *

><p><strong>A few extra notes: <strong>

**1. This chapter is like concluding the first season/book. So please expect some shorter-ish omakes before we get on with the rest of the story.**

**2. I already planned out the next chapter, and we turn away from the sadness/angst/torture genre for a more happier storyline! Alphonse will steal the splotlight for a bit, but no worries! Just read the third point.**

**3. I'm planning (well, I already started) to write what went on during Ed's missing two years living in our world. You'll get to know how he met Dee (and Machiavelli to an extent), their encounter in Denmark where Ed left Dee unconscious for a few weeks, and then their last one in Vienna, Austria, where Dee critically injures Edward. It'll be pretty gripping, so hang on to the edge of your seat! It'll probably be as violent as this chapter. O_o**

**Thanks for reading!**


	18. XVIII: Hide And Seek? Found You!

**It's Alphonse's story time now! Take it away, Al. Don't disappoint us!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own SINF and/or FMA. If I did, this story would be a series adaptation by now.**

* * *

><p>"Check."<p>

Alphonse studied the chessboard carefully. Francis had said how well Frenchmen were versed in chess, but he had no idea . . . All he ever cared to learn was only to beat Edward, and that was enough for him. But maybe he should take up the game again?—because he was being beaten to a pulp here.

He decided to move his rook to intercept the knight.

"A well thought-out move," Saint-Germain praised. "But that won't help you forever, Alphonse."

"Actually, I was lucky. My rook just happened to be there."

"Hmm . . ." The count made his move. "Check."

"Come on!" Alphonse exclaimed, exasperated. "Can't you go a little easier on me?"

"I can't. Don't you remember our little bet? Your training is far from over."

The young alchemist sighed, moving his bishop to take the count's queen. "I don't understand why you won't teach me anymore Fire Magic. We were doing fine last time I checked! What happened to that?"

"What happened—is that you need to learn Air Magic," said Francis.

"Does it have to go in that order?"

"_Yes_, it does. If you do not understand how Air Magic works, you won't be able to control fire! Doesn't every alchemist understand that?"

"I do understand that," Alphonse insisted. "What I don't get is _why_ I need to learn it. For God's sake, you said so yourself! I'm an _alchemist_. I know all these things already—the cautions, the dangers, the steps to ensure the best performance—they're all in my _head_, Francis, painstakingly etched in there. I can't forget it!"

Francis sighed heavily. "Alphonse! I would teach you how to do Air Magic, but I'm the _Master of Fire_. I don't know Air Magic."

"Then how come you can do Fire Magic so well, huh?"

"Alphonse, there's a difference between learning how to do it, and stealing it. Two whole different things."

". . . You stole it?"

"Yes. From Prometheus."

"You're serious."

"Completely."

"Then why won't you give me your memories?"

Francis took checkmate on the board. "Because your magic will be weaker that way. I want you to actually _learn_ the magic, step-by-step. You'll be able to discover your own weaknesses and strengths, and then build on them. That's what makes a powerful magician, Alphonse, not by the sheer amount of power you hold."

Alphonse glared at the chessboard. "I'm not playing this game ever again," he declared, getting up to pour himself a glass of water.

From outside, the bustling din of the Mumbai streets could be heard. Market stalls were open for that Wednesday; merchants had come from the neighbouring villages to sell their wares. It was currently autumn time, but being near the equator, weather didn't matter much.

A few weeks ago, Alphonse, Joan of Arc, and Saint-Germain had come through the Mumbai Leygate via Washington, finally taking up the task of tracking down Flamel. It had been a long wait specifically for Alphonse, because all that time, he'd been finishing up his aura-controlling lessons and practicing with a little bit of Fire Magic.

But like Francis said, there was no way they could continue unless Alphonse found a teacher for Air Magic.

"What I _don't_ understand," Alphonse voiced his thoughts, "is why we're sitting around doing nothing, when we should be actually looking for him."

"You know the saying 'If you get lost, hug a tree', right?" Saint-Germain asked.

"Why are you using that saying?"

"Because if we go out there, we will obviously get lost. So why don't we just stay low for a while and wait for Flamel to come to us?"

"We're not even sure he's still here."

"That's what my sources say."

"Sources can be wrong."

"Alphonse, why are you being so difficult?"

"I want to do something with my life," said the alchemist, ignoring his mentor. "I want to go out there, and explore, not just stay home all day. I want to do some sight-seeing, you know? I heard Mumbai is a spectacular place. Even Joan went out! Why can't I?"

"Alphonse, there's a war going on."

"That's no reason."

"It's effecting the whole globe—even the Middle East! Besides, Joan and I—we're not exactly what you call . . . welcomed by the authorities. We have done things throughout our lives that warranted such actions, and we regret them, but there are government officials looking for us."

"You know, if you want Nicholas Flamel to find us," Alphonse lectured, "we should do something that grabs his attention."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Alphonse, that's not—Okay. I get the fact that you're young, and you get bored easily. But we shouldn't make such rash decisions. If you don't remember, the reason why there are people after us is because Dee knows we exist. He's just telling the government lies to get them to hunt us down so he wouldn't have to do the dirty work."

"Then stop giving him the satisfaction. He's _expecting_ you to run and hide away. That's why we're in such a busy city, isn't it? Because Dee would _expect_ us to go somewhere secluded, where no one knows about, somewhere that he can't find us easily. He'll obviously look there first, before trying the big city."

"What's this about finding us easily?" Joan asked, coming into the room. She had a shawl wrapped around her head. "What are you not tell me, boys?"

"Fine," Francis said to Alphonse. "What do you propose we do?"

"Well"—the boy had a sneaky glint in his eyes—"I think Flamel has the same idea we do. He would try and settle in a busy city to avoid detection, so this would work out really well. We should put on a festival."

"A what?"

"What's going on?" Joan demanded.

"Hear me out," Alphonse said. "I know this is crazy, but with the war going on, the festival should provide people with a sense of peace and joy. At least in the meantime. It's also a great way to attract someone's attention. The news of it will spread like wildfire."

"You want a festival, okay," Joan summed up. "But no one's told me why!"

"We need something flashy," Alphonse continued. "And I know just the thing."

"I think I know the thing you're talking about," Francis said, nodding.

"Can someone _please_ tell me what's going on!"

"With two users of fire, I'm sure we can light up a whole night and provide a decent show at the same time."

"Agreed. It'll be just like the Eiffel Tower in _Paris_ all over again!"

The magician and the alchemist got up and left the room to discuss their strategies in private.

"Great," Joan muttered. "I'm living with two pyromaniacs."

* * *

><p>Joan was eventually filled in with the details, but Al and Francis refused to tell her more. Therefore she was stuck with the job of spreading the news around, while the other two guys dealt with 'bringing in the show' as they called it. She didn't want to think about what <em>that<em> meant, but she was afraid she already knew.

She just hoped there wasn't going to be too much fire that they'd end up burning the whole city down.

_Please just be dancers—or a magic show—please just be normal festival,_ she was mentally chanting one day as she was out carrying her duties.

Her tasks were scheduled to be the pamphlet distributor and the poster gluer. It was a tiring job, but she eventually got it done. And then she had to make sure the neighbouring towns got the message. Afterwards she had to speak with the city mayor, because otherwise their actions would be illegal—and they are already illegal immigrants, uh, _visitors_.

It seemed like Alphonse and Saint-Germain loved giving her more tasks to keep her occupied, while they did whatever they were doing. They kept disappearing and staying out for hours on end, and they would come back in the night covered in gunpowder.

"Almost ready," they announced one day. "Give us two or three more nights and we'll be done. The circus has already set up their tents in the square, right?"

"What exactly _do_ you have planned?" Joan had asked.

"It's a secret," Francis sang.

"The puppeteers have arrived," Alphonse said absentmindedly, checking off his list. "The dancers are prepped. The fire-eaters have yet to arrive, but they're coming—they have to, or else our plan might not work. Ehh, I'm pretty sure the travelling magician's show is set up, right?"

Saint-Germain nodded.

"Right, then. We're waiting on the fire-eaters. And food. Can't have a decent festival without food. Joan, did you contact the merchant sellers that come every Wednesday to come on Saturday instead?"

"Yes."

Alphonse clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "God, there's a lot to do. And there are only three of us. The Council's provided the funding, but that's all they're getting involved in. I certainly hope Flamel attends—if not, we're . . . kind of screwed, to put it bluntly."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Francis agreed.

"The Flamels have always had an affinity for festivals," said Joan, "especially Perenelle. They'll come, I'm sure of it."

"Remember," Alphonse reminded them all, "it's not just about us, it's about—"

"The people," Francis and Joan recited at the same time. "We got it."

"Perfect. Now, we have tons of other things to do. _Allons-y!_—as you French say."

* * *

><p>The night came for the festival.<p>

While the streets were filled with lively activity, Joan of Arc was wondering what kind of show Alphonse and Francis had set up for the town. She was presently being distracted, however, as she noted the number of people that came to attend—not counting those who were participating.

_I wasn't expecting THIS many people. I hope they know what they've got themselves into . . ._

The town square itself was nearly unrecognizable.

There were colourful flags and streamers that hung across the usual laundry lines, lanterns that hung at every door. At every corner of the square were market stalls that sold all varieties of food, ranging from Western cuisine, to European cuisine, to the more familiar Middle Eastern and Asian cuisine. The merchants had really outdone themselves this time.

Parading through the main street was the circus. The star of the show, a regal Indian Elephant, led the procession, trumpeting proudly. Behind her were the acrobats, followed by the magicians, then the clowns, and so on. All the while, makeshift confetti were falling out of the air.

In the square, a large stage was set up. The dancers currently occupied the show, the recently-arrived fire-eaters eating—well—fire at their side. A large audience had gathered at the foot of the stage, and the musicians were playing exuberantly. This attraction seemed the most popular.

Little did they know the stage served some other purpose . . .

Joan watched as the dance ended and the stage was replaced by a puppeteer act.

"Where are they?" she asked no one in particular. "They set this whole thing up—and to think they would at least _show up_!"

As if on cue, Alphonse and Francis materialized from behind her from out of nowhere. It scared her socks off, but she managed to gather her composure before scolding them.

"By the way, where were you?" she asked the two of them.

"To check the pyrotechnics before we begin the real show," Francis answered.

"Pyro . . . technics?"

"Yes."

Deep down, she already knew it had something to do with fire.

"You two better bet on your _lives_ that nothing goes wrong," Joan said. "Promise me."

"Yes, Ma'am," said Alphonse. "We'll try our best."

"For some reason that doesn't reassure me."

"Hey! I'm been getting better at Fire Magic."

"I wasn't talking about that."

"No time for chatting." Francis patted Al's shoulder, indicating their signal. "We need to get the show on the road."

"How can you be so sure Flamel even came?" Joan called after them.

"He was my master," Saint-Germain simply said. "He knows what my magic knows like. He'll know it's me, and he'll come—even if he's standing only five feet away from us."

Out of pure instinct, Joan gazed around to see if Flamel really was only five feet away. He wasn't, but she had a feeling that he did come—perhaps under a disguise. He and Perenelle _were_ supposed to be in hiding.

"I hope you two know what you're doing," she expressed her worry.

Alphonse smiled. "No worries! We'll be just fine. I'm working with a professional, after all."

_I have a feeling that he jinxed it._

"In the meantime," said Francis, "you keep an eye out for Nicholas and/or Perenelle. Our fire act does incorporate a large indicator for the Flamels that it's me. They should see this and come, because—let's just say I hid an extra meaning in my art."

Joan stood behind in the crowd as she watched them both head onto the stage. The puppet act wrapped itself up and the audience applauded, before the lights briefly shut off to induce a more dramatic effect for the following show.

Firstly, two fire-eaters headed up—one on each side of the stage. They took a deep breath and blew fire in a cross-fashion. It held for a few seconds, and the audience gazed on in awe. Before the night was plunged into darkness again, Saint-Germain headed up, juggling a ring of fire in his hands.

Joan of Arc tilted her head to the side. After how long she knew him, she had no idea what he was planning on doing with that ring.

He threw it into the air. It spun around a few times before settling in the space right above his head. Francis summoned another ring, to which he also threw up. This time the ring tilted and crossed the first ring horizontally. He continued this a dozen more times until all the gaps were filled—horizontally, vertically and diagonally.

No one knew what he was planning to do with this now full-circle ball of fire.

Their questions were somewhat answered with the next sequence. Saint-Germain flung the ball upwards and clapped his hands. The fireball expanded to ten times its size. Everyone could clearly see the individual rings again and the empty darkness between them.

Joan watched Alphonse walk onstage, holding blue fire in one hand and crimson fire in another. He carefully left them floating in midair before taking a portion of both, and joining them together to create purple fire. He flung the purple one upwards into the fireball. A tiny supernova seemed to implode inside there for a second, casting a white light in all directions. The light died down and the purple fire returned to its original colour, whizzing around the fireball wildly with no way of getting out.

As it settled, Alphonse conjured yellow fire and mixed it with the blue, affectively creating green. He did the same as the purple fire, and the same reaction occurred. He mixed the yellow with red next, to get orange. Finally, he threw the last three colours upwards—yellow, red, blue—in unison.

Inside the ball of fire, the audience watched as the six colours danced around each other, drawing closer and closer until they collided with one another, creating a brighter version of the former supernova.

Saint-Germain now drew in his hands, tapping his forearms to where his magic-trigger was—the tattoos in the form of butterflies. They seemed to come to life, rise up-up-up into the night. The moment they came into contact with the fire rings, they caught on fire.

The crowd gasped.

However it seemed that the butterflies weren't harmed by the fire. Instead, they seemed to be _wearing_ it. Each of the tiny life-forms took a ring and led it away from the coloured fires. They circled around each other before coming to form a shape.

Alphonse took the coloured balls of fire and rearranged each into a letter above the shape.

The purple fire became P.

The yellow became E.

The blue became A.

The green became C.

And the orange became another E.

The remainder red was made into a heart.

Underneath this universal word was another universal sign. Saint-Germain's earlier shape was a fiery depiction of a dove. His butterflies obediently stayed in place for a few seconds before each exploded into fireworks. The letters were the last to go. In a backward order, they evolved into sparklers that cracked and sizzled in the night.

And that concluded the fire show. There was an awkward lapse of stunned silence before one started clapping, and then the rest followed, whooping and whistling to express their amazement.

Then the back-up lights came on. Francis and Alphonse both offered their last words before disappearing behind the curtains. The festival resumed back into its usual celebrations. The crowd dispersed to attend the other attractions.

Joan headed over to Alphonse and Francis who were just coming offstage. Even though their show was a huge success, they were covered in soot and god-knows-what-else.

"That was fun," was the first thing Alphonse said.

"Fun?" Joan repeated. "No, that was simply amazing! I have never seen anything like it. You two have really outdone yourselves this time."

"Did you manage to spot Flamel yet?" Francis asked.

Joan had the decency to look sheepish. "Ah . . . I was so captivated by your performances that I completely forgot to look for them. But even if I did see them, I wouldn't recognize them. Better them spot us, right? We're not the ones disguising ourselves."

Alphonse was quickly growing anxious. "What if they didn't show up?"

"They have to," Saint-Germain insisted, more to himself. "I know them."

"And you're right, my boy. You've certainly improved the last time I've seen you."

The group spun around to come face-to-face with a hooded man. Alphonse caught the ghost of a smile in its shadows. On instinct, his black aura flared around him in a protective cocoon, but after hearing the count regard the stranger in a familiar manner, he lowered his shield.

"It's quite the defence mechanism you have there, boy," said the stranger.

"Is that you, Old Saint Nick?" Francis asked. He hadn't noticed anyone sneaking up on him.

"I told you to never call me that," Flamel snapped. "I know you've warranted this festival to sniff me out. Honestly, I would never hear the end of it if I said no to Perenelle. I understand that you're looking for me, Francis. Why don't we take this somewhere more private?"

"Nicholas . . . Flamel?" Alphonse began cautiously.

Flamel put down his hood, revealing the youthful and ageless face he went by. "The one and only."

"Is Perenelle with you?" Joan inquired.

"Not currently, no," Nicholas answered. "She went back home the moment she saw your spectacular. I suspect she wanted me to deal with this, because she knew you'd bring some trouble or the other. I thought I'd recognize that phoenix anywhere, though I suppose you were disguising the message as a fiery dove, hm?"

"We need to speak with you," Francis said.

"Well, yes. Why else would you put on such a thing for me? Just for small talk? I doubt it."

"Actually . . . it kind of is—on your level, anyway."

Flamel raised an eyebrow. "Oh, for crying out loud! What are the two of you thinking?" He switched his eyes on Alphonse. "And who're you? I don't believe we've ever met before."

"Uh, I'm Alphonse Elric. I'm—"

"—a new immortal," finished Francis. "This matter concerns him."

"What—taking on apprentices now, are we, Francis?" Flamel said.

"Yes," Francis said seriously. "This boy here—Alphonse—he needs an Alchemy teacher. He wants to fight for our cause, so we're teaching him magic already, but he's initially more comfortable with Alchemy. We were wondering if you wanted to do it."

"You don't really have a choice," Alphonse finished.

Saint-Germain shot him a _Not helping!_ look.

"I'm seventeen," Alphonse said to him as an explanation for everything.

The count rolled his eyes. "Of course. I forgot you are older than you . . . are?" He frowned. "Did I get that right?"

"I think we should move back to our Leygate stronghold," Joan suggested through gritted teeth. "_Don't you think so, everyone?_"

If Joan hadn't been flaring her aura dangerously, they would have never agreed. Men liked to . . . take it outside. They couldn't do peaceful chatting. They didn't think it would get them anywhere. So they resorted to staring each other down out of spite, and staying glued in place to see who would waver first.

In the end, they settled for talk in the stronghold, but Flamel stood right by the door like he was going to leave without a moment's notice. Alphonse sat on the couch in tense apprehension. Francis looked bored. Joan was glaring at everything in sight.

"Finally," she said. "Now we can begin."

"I don't take apprentices anymore," said Flamel. "You know that. Perenelle and I, we're far too busy for such a thing."

"What? Because you finally think you've found them?" accused Saint-Germain.

Nicholas opened his mouth to retort something, but Alphonse beat him to it.

"Found who?"

Awkward silence followed.

"We don't think we should tell you just yet, Alphonse," Joan said. "Trust me on that, okay?"

**It's better if you don't know, **added Mars, out of nowhere.

_Where did you come from?_ Alphonse thought, using all his willpower from shouting that out loud.

**I go wherever I please.**

The youth stifled his amusement. _Hardly._

**Do not mock me.** A terrifying air lingered around the god of war's voice.

Alphonse shivered. _Sorry about that._

**No matter. Nicholas Flamel has a strange hobby. That's all I'm saying. Both of the Flamels have always believed that pushing along Fate is the way to go. They do not understand they could potentially destroy humanity.**

_What ARE you talking about?_

**It's another story.**

_Then why are you bringing it up?!_

Mars was silent.

Alphonse inwardly cursed. Like always, Mars Ultor was completely useless. Alphonse could never understand him.

"It's different with him," Francis was saying. "Alphonse already knows Alchemy first-hand. You wouldn't even have to teach him that long."

Flamel was skeptical. "You mean he was doing magic before he was Awakened?"

"Alchemy is not _magic_," Alphonse intervened. "It's really just—" The alchemist caught himself, narrowed his eyes, and seemed to have conjured another plan. "On second thought, never mind. I don't want a teacher that can't the difference between the two. I'm better off solitary."

"Young man, magic and Alchemy are every bit as similar as they are different. You wouldn't believe what ties Alchemy has with magic. Perhaps you've learned differently, but it is true. Take the Leygates for example. With magic and Alchemy, you are always using your aura. There's no difference between your energy source, but—"

"Thanks," said Alphonse. "That's all I wanted to know. He's qualified."

He sat back with a nonchalant expression.

Flamel's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. "That was . . . a test?"

"Yes. You _are_ as great as people say you are. Even though that was valuable information, I found out all that recently. Are you going to teach me?"

**How suave.**

_Haven't I said a long time ago to stay out of my mind? I needed to make sure. _

"Immortal . . . at such a young age. Tell me, which god Awakened him?" said Flamel.

_Wait, I forgot I'm seventeen! It's worse I look like a thirteen-year-old; I'm never going to be able to drive, let alone travel by myself!_

**You can use magic to change your appearance—**

_Absolutely not!_

"Mars Ultor."

Nicholas sucked in a sharp breath. "Mars himself? That was a risky gamble, Francis."

"It worked out, didn't it?"

_I have an annoying god inside my head that thinks he can intrude in on my private space whenever he likes!_ Alphonse wanted to yell, but he knew that wouldn't help matters.

Mars, as usual, had no idea what he was talking about.

"What are the reasons for his immortality?" Nicholas inquired, surveying Alphonse carefully.

"He needs to find his brother. Oh, and get this—before, he had no aura, but now he has a black one."

"A black one? Hmm . . . This could be easier than I thought," Flamel mused.

**I don't like what he's thinking.**

_I TOLD you to get out of my head!_

"Just two months," Francis pleaded. "That's all he needs."

Nicholas sighed. "Well, I can't really refuse such a gracious request from a former pupil, so . . . I will teach Alphonse. But on one condition."

"Name it."

"I will come here to teach him. I can't have you all compromising mine and Perenelle's positions. I suspect Dee's already on our trail as we speak."

"He is. That's how we found you."

Flamel paused, staring.

"I'm sure it'll be at least a week before he finds you."

"A week?" said the Alchemyst finally. "My, he's getting shoddier at his job, isn't he?"

The two shared a knowing smile.

"Well, if that's all, I bid you all a good night. It has been a knowledgeable talk, gentlemen"—he turned to Joan—"and lady, but Perenelle's waiting to see if I really did find trouble. I also commend you on your impeccable tactics on finding me. You certainly do know what draws us in, don't you?"

"Better than Dee," Francis muttered.

"At any rate, it was wonderful seeing you both again, Francis, Joan, after so many long decades, too. I think I will find some pleasantries in teaching Alphonse. It's been such a while since I've had an apprentice. I forgot what joy it brought to share my knowledge with a young mind."

"I will be looking forward to it, Teacher," said Alphonse politely. "I can't wait to learn this form of Alchemy."

Flamel didn't ask about what he meant, because first of all he really needed to hurry on home.

He said his goodbyes and departed into the night of festivities. The noise and chattering stopped once Francis closed the door again.

"Well," he said. "That went well."

"I could use some sleep," Joan said, yawning. "I trust our entertainment will show themselves out?"

"They said they would, but I think they're having too much fun just to stay for one night. Give it a few more days, maybe a week."

"Hmph. It's always noisy in Mumbai anyway, day or night. By the way"—she directed this at Alphonse—"how did you get the Council to agree to this?"

Alphonse stared off at the ceiling. "That's a funny story—a long story, truthfully—but I don't mind telling it. So how did it go again . . . ? Oh, yes."

* * *

><p>They stood before the Council, as if they were awaiting the trial to determine if they were guilty or innocent. The Council certainly seemed intimidating enough.<p>

Except . . . no one was going to jail. At least, Alphonse _hoped_ not.

"So let me get this straight," said the Head Councilman, Abdullah, "you wish to put on an unexpected festival to promote peace and . . . prosperity?"

"Yes."

"What is the point of this?"

"Well, I thought it was pretty straightforward."

"Young man—"

"Alphonse, sir."

"Right. Alphonse—I do not think this festival is needed. We are already holding one in upcoming October."

"But we were waiting two months to do this!" Alphonse protested.

"Er, sorry, what?"

"What he means," Francis took over, "is that we can't wait for the next proper festival."

"Why ever not?"

"Because . . ." He struggled for a suitable excuse. "Well, we already told everyone that we were holding this. Look, we just need the funding. None of you have to come or say you took part in this!"

"But they would be," Alphonse whispered to him.

"_Shhh_," Francis said. "Please, honorable Council members. Grant us the excursion."

_In truth, we can't wait any longer to find Alphonse an Alchemy teacher. We need to do it now._

"But you are just illegal immigrants to this country," said another Council member, Ushna. She was a middle-aged woman with a severe greying hair-bun. "What, you think we do not know? Why should we listen to you?"

"For your information," said Francis, "my fiancé and I, we've lived in this country for four years. I'll show you the certificates!"

Alphonse held his hand up. "May I speak?"

Ushna nodded her consent.

"All right. I know this is pretty sudden to you all, but it'll do great for the morale of your people. There will be yet another outbreak of war as we know it, and we don't want people panicking. This festival will bring us all together, I'm sure of it. So please, won't you allow this—just this once?"

The Council members looked to each other.

"How old are you, young man?" Abdullah asked.

"Sev—" _Oops_. "Uh, thirteen, sir. Why?"

"We're entrusting this to a teenager?" Ushna said. "Preposterous!"

"I'll show you preposterous," Alphonse growled under his breath, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt.

Francis held him back. "Hold on; I'm the adult in charge of this, not him. You can trust me, right?"

All the Council members gave him a displeased look.

"We are aware of your record, Mr. Saint-Germain."

"What?! That was only _once_, for God's sake!"

"We do not trust foreigners so openly," said Abdullah. "However . . ."

"Honestly!" exclaimed Ushna. "We are really listening to them?!"

"Pretty soon, there will be no foreigners anymore," Alphonse said. "Think about it. The whole world may as well be multicultural by now. It doesn't matter where we're from. We're still people, like you." (Ooh, foreshadowing!)

Abdullah sighed. "I . . . suppose we may bend the rules—"

"Head Councilman!" Ushna said, outraged.

"—just this once," Abdullah finished. "However, let this be the last time. If I keep promising things—especially to illegal immigrants—"

"I'm not illegal!"

"—then this whole city will fall into disarray. These are troubling times as it is. We don't need another uprising."

"Head Councilman," stated Ushna. "Please, you honestly can't be considering th—"

"Stop interrupting me!" Abdullah snapped. "You interrupt me, I interrupt you—how does that feel, huh?"

"Are we getting the funding or not?" Francis said exasperatedly.

"Yes, yes. You are," the Head Councilman said, waving his hand uncaringly. "Just don't spend it on useless things."

"Thank you," said Alphonse, "so much. Really. You won't regret it."

"Make sure I don't."

Ushna was still fuming, her arms crossed in moody silence.

"You realize this will be a long process?" Abdullah continued. "You need to fill out the paperwork, sign your signature in fifteen different places—and don't forget that you need to pay us back somehow, whether it be income from the festival or some other illegal transaction."

"What?" Alphonse looked at Francis helplessly. "But we still need to broadcast the news! Don't forget all the attractions _for_ the festival that we need to hurry and book before they're taken! There's no way we can do everything on time with just us!"

And that was how Joan ended up with a shitload of jobs.

_**THE END.**_

Of this festival tale, anyway.

* * *

><p><strong>FanFiction keeps changing! Well, at least editing is easier. The doc window is so much more bigger now. <strong>

**Thanks for sticking with me for this long, guys! I honestly didn't think I was able to make it past ten chapters. But you all gave me the motivation to get off my ass and do something with my life, to which I gladly replied, "Okay!" **

**Thanks for all the reviews and favourites. These kind of crossovers aren't so popular, but I feel like they're a great fit. Ah, maybe one day . . .**

**P.S. That illegal transaction bit was a joke. Also, I've started the first Missing Years In History arc with Ed and Hohenheim and Alphons, and it's turning out longer than I thought. There's four chapters, and I've nearly completed the first one, and it's over 8,000 characters. WUT. I'll also find a way to fit Alphonse into all this, but I hope Alphons Heiderich will be a pretty good substitute for him. **


	19. XIX: Missing Years In History PT 1

**Ah, yes. Here is the Missing Years In History part 1! It turned out longer than I thought (over 8,000 characters, wow)! I hope you don't mind this, and the fact that Alphonse won't be appearing for a while . . . When I start writing the Book 2: The Magician plotline I will. Until then, you're going to have to settle for his real-world counterpart, Alphons Heiderich, who is pretty much like the average, everyday 15-year-old Alphonse Elric.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I do not own SINF and/or FMA.  
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* * *

><p><strong>Barcelona, Spain | 1921 | Age: 16<strong>

Their stay in Barcelona was supposed to be temporary. Already Edward found the city strange—the Spanish were so carefree, and they seemed to love drawing you to the side and striking up a conversation. Things were a bit straight-forward and orderly in Germany. With a war brewing and a potential rebellion amongst its government, Edward was reluctant to admit he missed being in his home country. Not that he didn't enjoy being in Spain.

"It'll be only for a few days, I promise," Alphons had said. "I can't pass up this opportunity. After so long I've been searching for a teacher, I've finally found someone. He has degrees for three different majors, Ed. This is big. Maybe you can even study along with us a little bit."

If Alphons hadn't looked so much like Al, Edward would have said no. But that wasn't the only reason. (No, he was not sore for nostalgia!) He was also curious about the science of rocketry. Perhaps it could allow him to find a way home, somehow, to the other side of the Gate. However much he loved Germany, staying in one place for too long became quite stuffy to him—he needed an excuse to travel again.

Maybe Barcelona wasn't the place he would've picked to attract some trouble—he always did in the end anyway—but it seemed the war couldn't touch its borders. At least not yet. Pretty soon, the terrors would spread all across Europe, to the Middle East, and then to the rest of the globe. Corruption was imminent, no matter how pessimistic it sounded.

"Behave for me this time, Ed," Alphons reminded him. "Remember that your father is coming along with us."

_Right_, Edward thought bitterly. "That's great," he said aloud with false cheeriness. "Because we need a chaperone coming along with us."

"We're underage, Ed. Besides, at least you'd finally get to spend some time with your father. You may even get to bond over this experience."

Edward shuddered. Alphons didn't notice because of the already jerking and bumping of the train they were on, currently headed to Barcelona, Spain.

"Don't you dare utter the 'B' word again," Edward threatened.

Alphons put his hands up in playful surrender. "All right, then, but you need to keep your promise to me. You blew my interview last time, Ed—I won't have you doing it again!"

"What are you talking about? I made your interview more entertaining!"

"I'm trying to get my education, Ed. It's important."

Edward huffed and sunk into his seat. "Okay. I promise. But only for this trip."

The day he'd met Alphons was at the university. He'd gone with his father to watch him lecture the class. He pitched in several times, but then he got bored and decided to wander the hallways. Alphons was among the youngest there, having taken interest in Physics and Rocketry at a young age. He was captivated by the endless possibilities rocket travel brought, and he'd easily bonded with Edward ever since.

Alphons smiled. "Thanks. Don't worry; you'll get back to being arrested on a weekly basis before you know it!"

"I hope you kids aren't talking anything illegal," Hohenheim interrupted, coming to sit in the compartment. "Edward, no grenades."

"That was only once!" Edward objected.

"Nothing illegal," Alphons promised before the other blond could go on an angry tirade. "Well, at least not yet, I don't think."

Hohenheim sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I'm getting too old for this. Must you make me have a heart attack every time I ask you to go out and get some milk?"

"Getting milk is boring," muttered Edward. "Milk is disgusting."

"So you decided to create a bomb from it."

"Hey, I hate milk, but I've heard it's good for the skin. I'm sure those people didn't mind getting splattered with it."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about, Edward!"

"Dad, stop being so uptight. No one's dead, right? Get off my back!"

"You can't keep thinking it's all right for you to blow up dairy products!"

"That's what you get for employing a dumbass of a milkman!"

"Edward, stop blaming others for your own outrageous temper."

"Says the one with a huger temper! And _yes_, huger is a word, no matter how weird it looks!"

"Resorting to grammatical tactics now, are we?"

"You asked for it!"

"Stop being ridiculous. People are staring."

"_Me_?" Edward shouted, outraged. "Me, being ridiculous?!"

"God, you're such a kid . . ."

"SHUT UP!" came a lady's shout from the opposite compartment.

They didn't.

Alphons shook his head helplessly. He watched the two continue to bicker. After all, what was a measly person like him supposed to do with these two scientists? It was impossible to teach Edward proper manners, and Hohenheim was just too overprotective about his son—who was soon turning seventeen, I might add.

_Oh, great_, Alphons thought, trying to disappear into his seat. _Now they're standing and glaring lightning at each other. I'm going to take out this book and pretend I don't know them . . ._

Eventually Edward and Hohenheim sobered and mustered up the maturity to stop bickering. Actually, a lot of the passengers (even some two compartments down) got pissed and called for a train attendant, who was (unluckily) forced to come down to the compartment to break them apart. Now they were seated on opposite ends, still glaring at each other, but now with less tension flying.

Alphons turned the page of his book. It really was quite fascinating.

"You're lucky they didn't tie you up, Edward," Hohenheim chided.

"Shut up, old man," said the blond, turning to face the window with a gloomy expression. "I don't even see why you care so much . . ."

"Edward, I'm your father."

"Nice excuse."

Hohenheim sighed. "Ed, I know I've been neglecting my duties as a parent, and I want to make it up to you now, while we're all well and together. Can't you just grant me this wish and help me through this? I'm not so great when it comes to parenting; you saw how Envy turned out."

Edward scoffed. "You chose _Envy_ as a comparison? Are you that afraid of me turning into a psychotic rampaging flying snake that doubles as a transforming mutant palm tree homunculus? I'll even go as far to say that I'm insulted. Am I supposed to help you raise myself? That's twisted."

"No need to get creative; I'm simply saying that . . ."

Alphons started humming to himself. He wished they really stopped talking.

_They're actually talking in a civilized way. How frightening_.

"Edward, you're old enough to understand," said Hohenheim. "I wish I didn't have to watch you this closely, what with all the trouble you attr—"

"Then don't bother!" Edward snapped. "You can go back to Munich for all I care. You've never had time for me—you always go off everyday to . . . to lecture at the university, and you just left me. Even when I came with you, you didn't even . . . even . . ." He trailed off, at a loss for words.

So was Hohenheim.

"Edward, I didn't know you thought that way," he said. "If you told me, maybe I would have . . ."

"Forget it," said Edward, clearly embarrassed at his own outburst.

Alphons perked his eyebrow at the scene. _I didn't know Ed felt so lonely. I always thought he hated his father._

Perhaps all Edward ever wanted was just to be acknowledged by his father. Alphons knew that the reason why Hohenheim was so protective and 'assertive' towards his son was because he really loved him. Dearly. But Edward couldn't understand that. Both of them were confused and unhappy, unwilling to see how the other truly felt.

"Awkward," Alphons muttered, flipping another page. (Yes, Alphons, that is most _definitely_ how you break awkward tensions, by saying awkward.)

Soon the atmosphere calmed, and both Elrics managed to drift off into sleep. Bickering endlessly sure tired them out. Alphons stayed awake to make sure they didn't miss their stop. Barcelona was coming up soon; they already crossed the Spanish borders. By the time he finished his book, they should've arrived.

"It really is a good book," he said.

Coming up to the four hundred and thirty-first page of his book about 45 minutes later, the train jerked to a halt. Alphons quickly stored his book away and gathered his belongings.

From overhead, the conductor yelled loud and clear into the speakers: "Welcome to Barcelona! Bienvenido a Barcelona!"

_I guess I'm going to have to finish _The Science of Rocket Theory_ later_, he thought.

He quickly shook Ed awake, who was halfway from falling down his seat.

"W-We're here?" said Edward. "Well, that was fast."

Alphons threw him his backpack. "It wasn't that long, actually. Are you sure you slept okay last night, Ed?"

Edward left that question unanswered, but Alphons could spot the telltale signs of fatigue on his face—and it wasn't just from having woken up recently. Edward slung his bag over his shoulder and shuffled over to his father, who was snoring shamelessly. He kicked Hohenheim in the leg.

"Get up, Dad. It's time to go."

Hohenheim spluttered awake. He readjusted his glasses. "Oh, yeah? Wow, where did the time go?"

"The day you hit forty," Edward muttered.

"Sorry, what?"

"Ugh, never mind. Let's just go."

The compartment was nearly empty. Most of the passengers were designated to get off at Barcelona, and some were scientists as well. They were probably here intending to do some business with cross-continental partners.

A certain three scientists stepped off the train and were greeted with warm sunshine.

Edward shielded his eyes. "God, it's so hot here in Spain. And bright."

"It's what happens when you head down south," said Alphons as Ed stripped off his jacket. "I've heard stories from people coming back from Africa. I can hardly believe what they tell me—it goes over forty degrees (Celsius, not Fahrenheit) in the dry season just in Nigeria!"

"Please don't," said Edward. "Now I feel like it just got hotter because you told me."

"Haha . . . sorry."

"Now, where are the hell are we supposed to go?" Edward asked, squinting into the distance.

"Obviously this way," said Alphons, stepping off the platform. The sign above them said _Exit_, and was supposed to lead them to the Pick-Up zone. "Ed, are your eyes okay?"

"I could take you to get your eyes checked," Hohenheim offered.

"I don't need my eyes freaking checked!"

"Well, if you're sure . . ."

"Leave me alone, dammit!"

Alphons hurried to get the proper directions before the two Elrics could break out into a fight again. He asked a patrol officer nearby that guarded the station, and the officer told him that the _Barcelona Research Institute of Science and Technology_ was right across the street. Alphons thanked him.

"It's not far," he told the Elrics. "It's a short walk from here."

"What? Where?" Edward said.

Alphons sighed. "Listen to you father. You need glasses."

"Told you so."

"_Shut up!_"

The streets of Barcelona where surprisingly mellow this time of the day, even though they were narrower than the roads he was used to back home in Germany. There were barely any cars at all on the streets—mostly pedestrians and bikers—and the few cars that did exist were tiny. They might as well been hooded scooters.

The citizens were eyeballing the newcomers strangely as they past by, muttering to each other.

"You don't think it's because we're German, is it?" Alphons wondered.

"Relax," said Edward. "No one can tell. As far as I'm concerned, I'm not from anywhere on this planet."

"Again with the stories, Ed?"

"They're not stories! I'm telling you—Dad and I aren't from this Earth, at least not in this version of it."

"The Germans were active participants from the last war," Hohenheim pointed out. "It makes sense that they are wary. Already news has reached up here about the uprising; pretty soon, none of us will be safe. It's obvious the higher-ups are planning something, and the Jewish government will be overthrown. Honestly, I don't blame these peace-loving Spaniards.

"I can't believe they would just let us cross the borders so easily. To think that transportation is already open . . ."

"You think too much, Dad," Edward interrupted. "Getting the passports and those all-clears was enough to give me a headache. They seriously thought I was carrying weapons inside my sleeve and pant leg. Did you see the looks on their faces when they found out I had prosthetics? They looked at me like I was a cripple punished by God. In a way, they're probably right. That's enough precaution for one day, trust me."

Hohenheim was staring at his son thoughtfully. "Edward—"

"I think that's enough politics for one day," said Alphons. "Look, we've arrived."

All three tilted back their heads to capture the full glory that was the _Barcelona Research Institute of Science and Technology_.

"Can we please shorten the name?" Edward said.

"Stop breaking the Fourth Wall," Hohenheim said.

"I can break it if I want to."

"The name is kind of a mouthful," said Alphons. "We can just call it BRIST."

BRIST consisted of a rather roundish building with tall white columns as outside supports, lining the entire outer perimeter. The front entrance was composed of large stone stairs fifteen metres across, leading to the top and into the front foyer of the building. A square of rose bushes were planted on either side of the stairs. Many scholars milled about on these stone steps, sitting and making small talk with other colleagues.

Beyond the sun shining into their eyes, Edward could see the roof of the Institute. Just like its walls, they were rounded, almost shaped like a dome. Colourful abstracts of glass were glued together to make the patterned skylight above the foyer.

"It's so . . . Spanish," Edward remarked.

"Ed, that's racist and above all else—stereotypical. Come on; we're going to miss my appointment if we don't hurry."

Alphons' idea of hurrying was to dash full-speed up the stairs like a three-year-old on caffeine. Of course, this promptly caused him to lose his coordination and bump into someone who was innocently chatting away with another person. Edward came careening into him before he had the chance to fall backward, his arms flailing like pinwheels.

Hohenheim stood a few feet behind them, face palming.

"Ah, sorry, sir," Alphons apologized. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Sorry."

"That's fine," said the man, who clearly carried the lilt of a British accent.

_Funny,_ thought Edward. _What's a Briton doing down here?_

"It's actually nice to see such energetic youngsters these days, especially around a research institute. Not many are keen on studying science anymore, content on occupying some other profession that obviously couldn't compare with—Oh, my. Apologies. I hadn't realized I was ranting." He smiled apologetically.

"No problem, sir," Alphons said.

Edward studied this person curiously. He was young, in his mid-thirties perhaps, and carted a smile that was a little bit too astute and shrewd. Again, what was a Brit doing down here? They were too much immersed in their own Oxford to care about travelling down south to Spain . . .

"Sorry about that again, young man," said the stranger, turning back to his colleague.

Alphons continued on up the steps, and Hohenheim followed. Edward just stayed in place, listening to the man's conversation.

". . . Technology has come far, but I wouldn't rule out the supernatural yet. Just because we have no proof means that it doesn't exist? I think humankind's simply come up with the excuse to cope with the ever-growing hallucinations that this is all just a dream."

"Blasphemy," said the other. "It goes against all that is science."

"Who says that the two are distinct? No one stops to think the similarities the two share."

_That this is all just a dream . . ._

"Edward," said Hohenheim, to get his attention.

His attention, however, was focused on something else entirely.

". . . brink of a scientific breakthrough! Professor Scheppelevich on the third floor has already started his test flights. You can't get more real than that."

"I must disagree," said the Briton. "You need to see to believe, and I concur. To see what's not there, you must believe that it exists."

"You call yourself a scientist?"

"I call myself many names. Alchemist, dreamer, entrepreneur . . . You name it."

_Alchemist_?

"_Edward_," Hohenheim hissed more forcefully.

"Either way, we all have our own thoughts. I won't force to believe what you deny. There are many things that I haven't seen in my lifetime, and never will see. We, as humans, can't do anything about that."

_Humans? Humans—why's he going on so much about humans?_

"You can still go on about your talk, John, but you'll never get the committee to approve—not with Scheppelevich at the head. They see him as the symbol of scientific wisdom. He knows what to go on with, and what to put down and abandon. You're right. You _are_ just a dreamer."

"Edward, if you don't come up here _right now_, I'll—! Oh, for crying out loud . . ."

"Aren't we all, Armando? Why do you think the best intellectuals are the way they are? Because they have _imagination_, my good sir, and you don't know how far you can really get without it. Imagination can get you bounties ahead and you don't even have to break a sweat; you just let your mind wander. Now, what I actually wanted to discuss with you was . . ."

Hohenheim chose this moment to swoop in, take Edward by the hand, and proceed to drag him up the steps like a father dragging his son away from a box of chocolate in the candy aisle.

"Dad, what was that for?!" Edward demanded, shaking his father's hand off of him and rubbing his wrist. He wasn't so comfortable with personal contact in the first place. "I was just _listening_!"

"We can't afford having you space out like that," Hohenheim stated. "This is really important to Alphons—won't you at least give him this?"

"You're just so much better to him, aren't you?" the younger blond accused. "Because he reminds you of Al, who obviously isn't here right now. Am I that easily disposable? Aren't I enough?"

Edward looked sincerely confounded with the mixed signals he was getting from his father.

So was Hohenheim.

Oh, geez. It's déjà vu all over again.

"Edward, I—"

"Whatever. Forget I said anything."

Edward stormed up the rest of the way, leaving his father behind. He entered the building, spotting Alphons just up ahead, talking with a lady behind the front desk.

"You never told me what this guy's name was," Edward said as he came up to the front desk. He was just glad that Alphons wasn't there to see him spacing out. Actually, the blue-eyed blond hadn't seemed to notice he was gone for a while. At least that was another awkward situation avoided. If Alphons heard him speaking with his father like that . . . He shuddered to think of the humiliation he'd suffer.

Alphons took out his documents and showed them to the lady, who waved them through the admissions.

"What were you doing outside, Ed? I thought you got sidetracked by the food stand outside."

"_There was a food stand_?" Edward demanded. He turned around. "Thanks for telling me. I'll be back sometime later—bye!"

"Not . . . so fast." Hohenheim caught him by the back of his coat and swung him back around. "You're not going anywhere, shorty."

"Don't call me that!"

"I'll buy you food later," he said, quietly.

"Huh?" Edward blinked. "Really?"

"Y-Yeah."

"Wow. Thanks, Dad."

"Uh, no problem."

"You guys coming?" Alphons asked, standing at the foot of the elevator.

They hurried to catch up.

"So what's this professor guy's name?" Edward asked again. "You haven't told me yet."

Alphons tilted his head to the side. "Really? I didn't?"

"Edward was probably reading at the time, right?" Hohenheim guessed.

"Uh, yeah. He was."

"That explains why he didn't register your words."

"Now that you mention it," began Alphons, as they stepped into the elevator, "he gave me no indication he even heard me that time." He leaned forward and pressed the floor number. The elevator doors closed.

"Sorry," Edward apologized brusquely. "I prefer my full attention on the text, not worrying about my surroundings."

"Thanks for the future reference. I'll hold on to that." _I'm surprised he's not dead yet. Imagine if he was reading in broad daylight and then one of those slum guys he manages to piss off comes and swipes at his book. Oh, wait . . . if he did that, then Ed would finally notice his looming menace and be majorly pissed off, and—_

Edward scowled, as if sensing his thoughts.

Alphons cleared his throat awkwardly. "By the way, the professor's name is Arnold Scheppelevich. He's a rocket scientist, like me. He's on the third floor of the Institute."

Something clicked in Edward's head.

_It's THAT Scheppelevich those two guys were talking about!_

"He won't be by any chance . . . Head of the Committee or whatever?"

Alphons' façade brightened. "So you were listening!"

"Actually no," Edward admitted. "It's something I overheard. This Scheppelevich guy doesn't sound remotely Spanish."

"That's because he's not. He's from Berlin. I guess the conditions up in Germany aren't so great, so he moved down here to study. But it turned out in his favour. He immediately got elected to be the Head of the Research Team of the Barcelonan branch."

"Hmm," Edward hummed thoughtfully. "Another ridiculously long title . . ."

Alphons sighed. "Just . . . just don't blow this for me, all right? As long as you can do that, I'm happy."

The elevator dinged and they stopped moving, announcing that they had arrived on the designated floor. The scientists stepped out and gazed at their surroundings.

The hallway they were in wrapped all around the centre of the building, where the labs and lecture halls were located. This meant that whatever wing they were in, windows lined the entire outer wall, showering the inside with bright light.

"Which wing is his office?" Edward asked.

"The east wing," Alphons indicated with a wave to his left. "It's not too far off. Come on."

A short walk later, they stood before a closed door with the name plaque _A. Scheppelevich_ on it. While Alphons stepped forward to knock, Edward ran to the side and gazed out the window, noting how high up they were, even on the third floor.

_I guess each floor is pretty high up even in regular standards_.

There was a rattle and he turned around. Scheppelevich's door opened to reveal a young woman in about her late twenties, gazing curiously at the guests.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"You're Mr. Arnold Scheppelevich's assistant, right?" Alphons said.

"That would be correct."

"I've arranged a meeting with him today. I'm assuming he's in?"

"Yes, but he's on the phone. Why don't you all come in and sit down while I announce your presence?"

"That would be good, thanks."

"By the way, what are your names?" the woman asked as they sat in chairs facing her desk.

"I'm Alphons Heiderich, the name that's registered in this session," Alphons explained. "I've brought along others though; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

Hohenheim inclined his head. "Van Hohenheim. Nice to meet you."

Edward didn't say anything. He was busy staring off at the various certificates on the walls.

"Sorry about him," Hohenheim said. "He tends to do this a lot." He shook his son's shoulder. "Edward? Still alive?"

The blond jerked out of his reverie, looking as if he'd just realized there were others in the room. "Sorry," he said. "What did you say again?"

"What's your name, sweetie?" the secretary asked kindly.

Edward turned his head away again, staring off someplace else. "Edward Elric," he mumbled absently.

"Uh, he's—" Hohenheim tried to say.

"It's fine," said the secretary. "I've got all I needed. Please wait patiently until then. I will be right back."

She disappeared down a hall to the right, where the faint clicking of the door closing and opening could be heard.

"Edward?" Hohenheim said softly. "You all right today? You've been spacing out a lot."

"I'm fine," Edward said, but he was focused on something else in his field of vision.

He stood up and walked over to sphere-like contraption, staring at it curiously. And then he poked it—bad idea. He instantly recoiled, deliberating the reaction that just occurred. He shook his hand as if to loosen the pain, hissing.

"Ed?" Alphons said. "What are you doing?"

"Ow," Edward got out, grimacing. "What _is_ this thing?"

"It channels electricity," the secretary said, coming back into the room. "It's not supposed to harm you so badly—just deliver a good shock. It's like static electricity on a cold winter's morning. Nothing major."

"Nothing major?" Ed said, cradling his limp right hand. _It totally fried my nerves!_

"It's not good on metal, though, especially other electrical circuits," the secretary continued. "It's just amplifies the output."

"Thanks for telling me. Maybe I could've known that before I touched it."

"Young man," she said, smiling, "you're not supposed to be touching things in the first place."

She then steered the three of them into Scheppelevich's office, telling them that he agreed to see them right away. Hohenheim was chastising his son (again).

"You have metal prosthetics that require your own electrical currents to move," he said. "You need to be more careful, Edward. You can completely destroy your nerves this way."

"But it was interesting! I wanted to know what it did," Edward hissed back.

"Then you _ask_ what it is, not risk your limbs to find out yourself!"

As they arrived in Dr. Scheppelevich's office, the assistant left the small group to their own musings, announcing their presence before disappearing back down the hall. Scheppelevich ushered them in, and closed the door himself before taking a seat.

"You would be Alphons Heiderich, correct?" Scheppelevich inquired, gesturing for them to sit in the mahogany chairs laid out for guests.

Alphons stuck his hand out as he sat. "Yes, that's right."

"It's nice to finally meet you," the doctor said, taking his hand. "Did you get that telegram I sent you?"

"Yes. I called you a few hours ago, too."

"Ah, I remember that. Well, I'm glad that you've arrived safely. You said that you were bringing extras—are these two gentlemen them?"

Hohenheim and Edward were _still_ arguing between themselves, so when they heard their persons being mentioned, they stopped bickering and turned.

"Er, we're—" Hohenheim started.

Edward scowled. "I'm pretty sure your assistant told you that already—or else the reason she got our names were for absolutely nothing?"

Scheppelevich laughed. "You've got energy, kid. I could use people like you."

"Coming down here," began Alphonse, "we hope you could be our Rocketry professor. I mean, Edward and me. We already heard you had a team, so we thought we could learn under you."

"I didn't get an application for a second student."

"I know. It was . . . worth a shot." Alphons hung his head.

"Whatever," Edward said. "I didn't even want to join your little group anyway."

Scheppelevich raised his eyebrows. "Well, we could always use a few interns around to help. You won't be officially on the team, but you can still learn everything the others are learning. What about it?"

Alphons was beaming, and Edward . . . was trying hard not to appear repulsed.

But the poor man looked rather sickly and pale . . . Did Scheppelevich have an illness? Edward stared around his office and saw that the walls were almost bare, safe for a few bookshelves. There were no plaques or certificates, like he had nothing to show off.

Or perhaps he was just hiding something.

The room was _much_ too plain, too normal. Something was definitely up.

"Fine," he relented. "I'll join your little . . . internship. But this guy"—he jabbed his thumb at Hohenheim—"is not allowed to be in a fifty metre proximity."

"Edward!" Hohenheim said.

"Hey, you're just as bad when it comes to strange scientific machinery. It'll be better for all of us if there was only one of us around touching things."

Well, you can't argue with that logic.

"Gah, fine. But you better come home with all your (remaining) limbs."

"You got it, pops."

"Don't call me that."

_It's a wonder how similar those two are_, Alphons thought shamelessly.

"If you all agree with these terms, then you wouldn't mind signing these documents," said Scheppelevich, taking out a stash of forms. "Now _here_, it states your consent. Please sign there, thank you." He flipped the page. "This is basically a list telling you what we do, what we will do, and so forth. Sign here, please. Thank you. Now . . ."

The signing eventually got boring because there was so much technical stuff, so Edward stood up and started to prod the bookshelves in the office. Hohenheim tried getting him to sit back down, but Edward wasn't listening. He'd already drawn out a book.

It was dusty and leather-bound, definitely custom-made. It wasn't one of those huge textbooks either. It was more like a journal, a research notebook, if you will, that you wrote in whenever you've uncovered a scientific discovery or had a memorable theory. Edward had one of those as well, hidden away in his coat pocket.

He turned the pages, scanning the messy writing that encompassed its contents. He stopped near the end of the journal, where Scheppelevich wrote about his rockets.

_. . . attach it to an engine and transport pod . . . Able to travel far distances, even to the outer regions of the atmosphere . . ._

This was all just a theory, but Edward couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of homesickness.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Scheppelevich excused himself from Alphons and told him to continue with the signing. He marched to the door and wrenched it open. A familiar-looking man stepped through the threshold and inspected the room's occupants.

"Sorry, I wasn't aware you were holding guests."

Edward looked up. He'd heard that British accent before.

"John, I'm busy right now," Scheppelevich said. "Could you come back later?"

"What, you cannot show the least bit attitude towards your sponsor? I'm the one funding all your projects."

"John, I realize, but could this wait? I'm currently welcoming new students to my team."

"New students?" 'John' pushed past Scheppelevich. "Oh, why, these are the boys I bumped into outside."

"Hello," Alphons said briefly, and then turned back to his forms.

Edward just stood quietly in the corner, still holding Scheppelevich's journal. John didn't seem to notice him.

Hohenheim was tense in his seat. "Please excuse my rudeness, but . . . who are you?"

"Dr. John Dee, pleased to meet your acquaintance. You could say the Rocketry team belongs to me."

"It's _my_ team," said Scheppelevich. "John, get out of my office."

"Don't get your hair in a stuffy—I wanted to pop by to say hello. So, hello."

"Goodbye." Scheppelevich started to direct him out.

"Wait, wait, hold on. I'm not done yet." John Dee shook the man's hands off of him. "I actually came by to tell you that we're pushing the completion day back by another two days. Is that all right with you?"

The look on Scheppelevich's face clearly said no.

"T-Two days?!" he spluttered. "John, you've already been pushing the date back—last week you said I only had two weeks left to complete this, and now I only have less than six days! What are you thinking?"

"Just because I'm your sponsor doesn't mean I'm your boss—I have bosses myself, you know, and they direct orders to me, so I can direct them to you. What they say goes. If you can't complete the rocket prototype by then . . . Well, say goodbye to your team."

"John!" Scheppelevich said. "This isn't—"

"Isn't negotiable," John said. "End of story."

"Come on, man! It's _just_ a prototype. I'm—it's not ready!"

Edward watched this exchange with boredom, promptly turning back to the journal. He turned the page and continued reading.

"Time travel . . ." he murmured, glancing up at the ceiling. "Could these rockets . . . ? No way. That's impossible. So is flying into another realm that coexists side-by-side . . . with . . ."

_Other realms?_

"Arnold, I told you that if you continue to fuss and make excuses, then you are most definitely not the brilliant scientist you claim to be," said Dee. "Make this happen, and I'll be happy. That's all I'm asking from you."

"That's a whole lot to ask!" Angry, Scheppelevich turned away from Dee and finally caught site of Edward holding his notebook. "Oi, boy! Is that my journal? Who gave you permission to read that?" He marched over and tore his journal away from Edward's hands. "That's private, boy, and not reading material. Don't touch, all right?"

"S . . . sorry," Edward mumbled, turning back to the bookshelf. He now noticed that most of the books Scheppelevich had were Science-Fiction.

_Parallel Universes, Time Travelling, A Life after Death, From Space and Beyond . . ._ There were so many titles on these subjects. Edward was starting to question if Scheppelevich really was who he said he was, or if he was on to something bigger that he couldn't let anyone else know.

"What's he doing with the money?" Edward asked no one in particular. _Yes, what WAS he doing with the money intended for Rocketry research?_

Hohenheim turned around. "What's that, Edward?"

"No. Nothing. I didn't say anything."

His father arched an eyebrow, but didn't question it.

"All I'm saying is you complete it by Friday, capiche?" John said. "That's it, I'm leaving. Later then, Arnold."

As soon as Dee disappeared from view, Scheppelevich slammed the door shut and sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"That man will be the death of me," he muttered.

"What was _that_ about?" Alphons wondered.

"John Dee. He's my sponsor. He's been on my back for weeks to finish the goddamned rocket. But I'm missing something. And honestly, I haven't had a decent team in a long time. My last man walked out on me, saying that my rockets were a lost cause. It's only me—there ever was only me."

"That's all right," Alphons said. "You have me and Ed now."

"There's something off about your sponsor," Hohenheim inputted with uncharacteristic seriousness. "Be careful, Mr. Scheppelevich."

"I know, I know." The scientist didn't seem to notice the foreboding tone in the other's voice. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him. I've been doing other things besides building and testing rockets. But that's all I'm saying. Finished signing those forms, Mr. Heiderich?"

"Yes." Alphons handed him back his pen as he collected the documents. "So when do we start?"

"As soon as possible. Whenever you're ready. Actually, don't come in tomorrow, but the next day. I have other priorities I need to resolve."

"Oh."

Edward didn't acknowledge his words. He stood, staring at the door, the same spot John Dee was before. He couldn't get that weird nagging feeling at the back of his mind to go away. He felt like something was _really_ off about the situation, but he couldn't seem to pinpoint what.

"Sorry about his intrusion," Scheppelevich apologized again. "I wasn't expecting him."

"That's all right," said Alphons. "He seems like a smart man, doesn't he?"

Scheppelevich hesitated. It was barely noticeable, but Edward caught it. "Yes. He's a world-renowned scientist. I can never compare to him. But what he doesn't like, he gets rid of. That's why most don't share their findings."

He stuffed his journal into a desk drawer before shuffling other research papers together and bunching them in the same place. Although Edward had half the eyesight he was supposed to have, he saw various sketches of the earth and scribbles about the physics of inter-dimension travelling.

He wondered what Scheppelevich was doing with all that. They were just theories, nothing more. It wasn't like he could expand on them and make them work.

. . . Right?

"Thank you for coming in," said Scheppelevich. "I'm looking forward to seeing you both again. Have a good day."

He held the door open for them as they left the office. After they waved a goodbye to the secretary and were travelling down the hall to the elevator, Edward finally expressed his thoughts, having held them in for so long. It was a surprise he lasted this far.

"There's something weird going on in that man's head," he said. "Is he going through some sickness?"

"By the looks of it," said Hohenheim. "It seems we've both gotten that feeling, huh? The oddity of the situation."

Edward hummed. "_Barcelona Research Institute of Science and Technology_?" he recited, and then scoffed. "More like _Building of Retarded Idiots with Shitty Tact_."

"Edward!" Alphons said.

"Everyone here is a nutter," Edward said. "Take my word for it; this isn't worth it. We're better off finding another professor."

"But I've already signed the papers!"

The golden-eyed blond watched his father's reactions carefully. There was something else bugging him. Hohenheim was just too _lax_ about all of this, like he'd seen this coming. Right now, the older Elric seemed to be in a thoughtful trance.

"Dad," said Edward. Hohenheim looked down at him in surprise. "Dad, what are you thinking?"

Hohenheim blinked a few times. "Oh, I'm . . . It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Edward."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Edward, it doesn't concern you."

"Is it about Scheppelevich?"

"I _told _you—don't worry about it."

He glared defiantly at his father. "Fine, then. I'll find out anyway, on my own."

Hohenheim sighed, but Edward had already run ahead with Alphons. He couldn't find the courage to tell him.

_What he doesn't know won't hurt him._

* * *

><p>Arnold Scheppelevich was up, late at night, in his study. He'd been getting close to the revelation for months, but with what he was able to gather all this time, he was most definitely sure now.<p>

"Separate worlds connected to our own, hosted by gods," he whispered. "It's true. So it's all true."

There came a rustle behind him. Scheppelevich shut his book abruptly and stood, demanding the perpetrator to show his face.

But silence only answered him.

He sighed. "Arnold, you old boot, you're getting too paranoid."

After he settled, another presence presented itself.

"Arnold."

The voice was distinctive. He knew this voice.

"What are _you_ doing here?" the scientist demanded.

The figure in the shadows smiled. "Unfortunately, I can't have you knowing everything. It's so unfortunate. You were a smart man; you should have just stuck with researching rockets. Goodnight, Arnold, it was nice doing business with you."

You knew it was coming. Scheppelevich knew it too. The past tense was a _dead_ giveaway.

* * *

><p>The morning two days afterwards, Alphons and Edward left the hotel they were staying at early. They didn't want to waste anymore time in postponing what they were waiting for so patiently these past few weeks. They finally had a rocketry teacher.<p>

"Isn't it great, Ed?" Alphons said. "Just imagine what we could learn! Do you think we'd get to build a rocket of our own?"

"We're just helping out, remember?" Edward said. "Don't get your hopes up."

He meant it. For some reason, he felt like this was all too good to be true. Alchemy's law stated that you couldn't gain something without giving up another in return. Something was definitely bound to go wrong—he just didn't know what.

_There's no such thing as Equivalent Exchange._

Edward subconsciously rubbed at his forehead. He'd been getting the same dream over and over again—for weeks on end now. For some reason, he kept dreaming about his home on the other side of the Gate, where Al was alive and happy, where everyone else continued to live on their lives, despite the wars going on over there . . .

"Are you daydreaming again?" Alphons asked.

Ed snapped out of it. "Huh? Oh, um, sorry. I've been thinking a lot lately, is all."

"You're always thinking, Ed."

He laughed. "I guess so, huh."

_It doesn't matter if Equivalency doesn't exist. You still have to pay a price for everything, even though in the end, there's a chance you might not get it at all._ _All worlds work this way—doesn't matter which side of the truth it is._

Eventually the familiar dome-shaped building loomed ahead over them, and the young scientists were eager to get inside.

However, when they got inside, the first thing they noticed was the amount of police officers patrolling the foyer, asking questions to scholars that were being held up for their next appointment.

"What do you think all this is?" Alphons said.

"Something's wrong," said Edward.

He rushed forward, ignoring the officers that told him to stop. Alphons was right behind him, and they both bolted into the elevators before anyone could say otherwise. Riding to the top, Edward was the first one out, scanning the hallways vigorously.

He couldn't get that empty, dreadful feeling out of his stomach . . .

The closer they got to Scheppelevich's office, the more officials they encountered. All of them had solemn, strictly-business expressions on their faces, blank masks hiding the true emotion behind them.

Coming up to the A. Scheppelevich's door, their gazes automatically landed on his secretary, Monica, who was crying silently before another officer. He was gesturing delicately, apparently telling her some kind of bad news and explaining it to the best he could without triggering any more tears.

It didn't really work, though.

"What's wrong?" Edward demanded. "What happened?"

Monica simply cried harder at his inquiries.

The officer that was speaking to her turned and sighed, looking at Edward as if to say _Can you be anymore insensitive?_

But Edward didn't know what was happening, first of all!

"Kid, you're not supposed to be up here," said the officer. "I thought we closed this floor off."

"What. _Happened_?" Edward repeated.

"Ed, look!" Alphons was pointing at the door, which was wide open, but was barred with yellow tape. "Did . . . Was there a burglary or something?"

"I wish," the police officer said wearily. "But it's not that simple. You didn't hear from the guys downstairs? Apparently Arnold Scheppelevich passed away last night due to his declining health, and we're up here trying to salvage his life's work."

"But he was getting better!" Monica sobbed, as if trying to convince herself. "He was really getting better! He couldn't have . . ."

"Lady, I'm sorry, but it's the truth."

"She's right."

"Huh?"

"She's right," Edward said. "He _was_ getting better. We saw him two days ago. Officer, is there any chance we can get inside the room?"

"Sorry, no. It's closed to the public."

Edward turned and looked into the room, trying to capture all that he could of the scene. But what he saw instead absolutely convinced him that everything was just way too good to be true.

John Dee was speaking to a private detective. He looked sympathetic, and crestfallen, but Edward was detecting another emotion behind it.

Relief.

It could have been easy to say that the detective told him something that made him feel relieved, but the situation was way too wrong for the occasion.

"If you say he passed away peacefully on his own, then why are so many officials storming the lobby and skittering all over the Institute?" Edward demanded at the officer. "Does this whole thing sit _right_ with you, or are you just too blind or too much of a coward to question it?"

"Kid!" the officer snapped. "Don't ask me; I'm just following orders! It's the higher-ups that tell me what to do—take your anger out on them!"

_I barely knew the man, and yet . . ._

"It's always the higher-ups, isn't it," Edward stated.

"Ed," Alphons began warningly, before the blond could do anything rash.

"Honestly," said the officer. "I know nothing more than you do at the moment."

. . . _it wasn't just a simple death. Was it?_

Scheppelevich was delving into guarded territory, realizing things that couldn't be comprehended, that he shouldn't have come across. He paid the price for that, but for what reason did he have to die?!

"Come on, Al," said Edward, grabbing Alphons' arm. "We're leaving."

And the youth turned, marching down the hallways with a much bigger air than he was.

After getting out of BRIST and finally escaping the police officers that decided to ask them millions of questions, Edward and Alphons began to return back to the hotel. Alphons was particularly disheartened at Scheppelevich's untimely demise.

"It's so unfortunate," he was saying. "For him, and for us."

Instead of adding on to the stream of condolences, Edward said, "It's weird, isn't it? Haven't you noticed it yet? We only just met him 38 hours ago, and then he dies late last night. And for what reason? He would have never agreed to become our teacher if he knew he wasn't in the physical condition to do it."

"Maybe he was desperate?"

"Desperate, yes. But he's not the Head for nothing. He's not stupid, Alphons. There's a bigger plot circling around, grander than we think possible."

"Ed, you sound so weird, speaking like that. What's gotten into you?"

"I've only come up with a theory," Edward said, as his own way of explanation, "but I'm not entirely sure yet . . ."

Alphons sighed. "I was so looking forward to studying rockets with Dr. Scheppelevich. I can't believe he left us so soon. What are we going to do now? Finding Rocketry teachers has been impossible—there aren't many that study this kind of science, because it's only so new! Ed, what do we do?"

"I guess we get up and move on."

"What? You mean find another teacher?"

"Yes."

"But that's . . . !"

"I know. It'll take a while, but we'll be able to manage it. I hope, for whatever reason Scheppelevich perished for, that it was worth it. I hope that Monica can get over it. Mostly, good luck to that John Dee on finding another exceptional rocketeer."

* * *

><p>"Dad."<p>

Hohenheim looked up from his book. "Oh! Edward, what brings you here?"

"Dad, I've found another rocketry scientist."

"Really? So soon?"

"Mmm. He's from Transylvania but is studying in Rome. He goes by Dr. Herman Oberth. I already told Alphons the news, and we've messaged him. He says we can come down straight away. Are you going with us?"

"Sadly, no. I have to return to London."

"Again? It's for your secret cult, I'm assuming?"

Hohenheim smacked his son over the head with his book. "Edward, how dare you suggest such a thing? It's not a secret cult or whatever it is you refer it as. It's business I have, nothing more, nothing less."

"Now, where have I heard that from?" Edward said, faking thoughtfulness.

"What's the real reason you came to talk to me, Edward?" Hohenheim said. "Normally you wouldn't share any of your personal activities."

"What—I can't say that I've started to detest you less?"

"Nice way of putting it."

"Ha. Thank you. But . . ." Edward turned serious. "I did want to tell you something else. Yesterday, I broke into Scheppelevich's office."

Hohenheim dropped his book. "You what."

"That's not the point, though," Edward continued.

"What do you mean that's not the point?! _You_ _broke into his office_!"

"Don't worry; dead men don't worry about broken windows."

"_It's not the dead men that own the building, Edward_! How did you climb up to the third floor?!"

Edward left that one cleverly unanswered. "I searched his office, but I only had a time limit to do it. The place is still swarming from officers and lunch time was the only interval of vulnerability I had. To think, about a week, the commotion would have died down. This is obviously bigger than we thought."

"So what did you find?"

"Nothing," he responded. "That's just it, though. _Nothing_. Doesn't that seem inconsistent to you? It wasn't like those officers cleaned the place out. As far as I know, they don't have the authority to move everything out until the Board gives them clearance, or if Scheppelevich's will says otherwise. I also realized he _didn't_ have a will. He wasn't expecting to die so soon."

"Are you sure this isn't all just a coincidence? Have you told Alphons yet?"

"He doesn't need to know such things. You and I have had run-ins with the authority tons of times. He hasn't. Alphons' record is clean. I want to keep it that way. We're not bringing him into this."

"But you aren't just jumping to conclusions here?"

"Don't you _see_, Dad?" Edward insisted. "There still should be research notes, patents, schematics, but there was none. It's like Scheppelevich kept it all in another location, like he had something to hide. I knew all that I needed to come up with another conclusion. Rather, I knew this from the start. He wasn't working on what everyone thought he was working on."

"You found something strange in his research?"

Edward nodded, and turned, so his father couldn't see his face. "Dad?"

"Hm? What is it?"

"Scheppelevich . . . didn't die of his own accord, did he?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Dad, you've been hiding something from me for a while. You're not lying that you don't know, but I can tell you're hiding the truth from me. You know what's going on, don't you?"

". . . Edward. Don't mix yourself up in this. It's not your burden."

"So you do know."

"It doesn't concern you. Don't go and try looking for the truth. You're only going to end up losing more than you have."

"You know it's too late for that."

"Don't talk like that, Edward. It's unbecoming of you. Ever since coming over to this side, you've been endlessly bitter. What are you thinking?"

"That this"—Edward gestured to the space around him—"is all just a simple dream. Good luck on your cult, Dad. I hope it helps you know that I don't give a single fuck about it. If you won't tell me, then I'll just have to find out on my own."

After Edward left, Hohenheim collapsed onto his bed.

"Don't you understand . . . ?" he said, letting the question linger in the air. "I'm doing all this for _you_."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading! This <em>is<em> two years before current time, so Ed is still pretty naive and immature. I've decided to upload Missing Years In History part 1 and 2 before the Magician: Book 2 intro. Then I'll add on the last two parts, because I want to make unsuspecting things fit together.**

**On another note, since school has started, that means I won't be updating much. I thought middle school was bad, look at high school. Now, I will have absolutely no breaths in-between. I'll be updating to the point where you all will forget me. (Let's hope not.) The next chapter is about half-way complete. I'm not giving up; just taking a not-so break. Oh, school. Curse you. Why must you burden me so?  
><strong>


	20. XX: Missing Years In History PT 2

**Here is Missing Years In History part _deux_! I totally did not plan for Edward to travel up north. I just thought the two of them should have lives separate from each other, you know? Them being together all the time is kind of weird. Besides looking like Alphonse, Alphons and Edward are practically strangers.  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own SINF and/or FMA.  
><strong>

**Enjoy!  
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* * *

><p><strong>Rome, Italy | 1922 | Age: 17<strong>

The moment Edward touched down on Italian soil again, he was wrapped into a hug by Alphons.

"You're back!" he said. "It's been a while since I've seen you. How was the trip?"

Edward unravelled the scarf from around his neck. "Cold. But not that bad. I've only been to London once before . . . and it was an experience I'd rather not remember—the London Blitz attack, I mean. How are things on your end?"

"You wouldn't believe it! You've missed so much—I learned a lot while you were away. Oh, that's right. We've missed your birthday, haven't we?"

Ed shook his head. "That's fine. I spent it with Dad. It was . . . nice."

"Nice? Did you really just use _nice_ to describe it? _You_ of all people!"

The blond shrugged. "What else am I supposed to say?"

"Oh, I don't know—_we had cake the size of a radio box, I got a billion presents, _blah, blah, blah, etcetera. Well, in your case, it's more like, _we punched each other out a couple of times, I shaved my old man bald, _something like that."

Edward rolled his eyes.

Alphons chuckled at his expense. Usually Ed would've been immature about it and eventually laugh along with him, but this time was different. The blond stayed silent, watching on with an almost bored expression.

"So where is your father?" Alphons decided to inquire.

"Back in Munich. He has his own 'business'—as he likes to call it—to take care of, so we went our separate ways on the train here. But never mind me; tell me what you've learned, and maybe I'll try to catch up to your expertise."

And so, on their way to get a cab, Alphons told his friend all about his experiences. Edward also noticed how his voice was rattled and hoarse, like he'd been coughing recently. But he pushed the concern aside; Alphons probably contracted a cold.

". . . I even built my own rocket!"

"Really? That's great. Maybe you can show me when we get back to the factory. Did you tell Dr. Oberth that I was coming back today?"

"Yeah. You should tell me about your experiences in England. How is it over there?—well, besides the weather."

"The people there aren't so different from us, actually. Dad showed me around Oxford. It's big. You know, he taught there before I—" _Before I crossed over through the Gate._ "You wouldn't believe the alchemical arrays he's come up with! Sadly, Alchemy doesn't work, but the equations could be used for interpreting other scientific formulas."

"It's always Alchemy with you, isn't it?" Alphons said. "Don't you talk ever talk about real science?"

"Sure I do. When I want to."

They successfully hailed a cab and clambered inside. Alphons gave the driver direction towards Rome University, where Dr. Oberth's main office was situated. Edward was confused. Hardly anyone ever went there, even the doctor himself. Warehouse B (not 13) should be where they were going; that was the primary facility the Rocketry team worked at.

"You still have to renew your contract, remember?" said Alphons. "You've been away for a month. The doctor needs to know whether you're still qualified."

"Of course I'm qualified! Are you sure you're not making up an excuse?"

"Doctor's orders."

"Don't make it sound like I'm sick."

Truthfully, it was an excuse. For what, you'll just have to see.

So, I'll get you all up to speed. What happened between the Barcelonan timeline and now?

Edward and Alphons immediately came down to Rome, Italy via train, while Hohenheim went up north after handing over the children into Dr. Oberth's care. In London, he met up with Dr. Haushofer, but that was a totally different story and had nothing to do with this one.

For a few weeks, Alphons and Edward trained under Oberth and even got to work with his Rocketry team. They learned how to put together a rocket in theory, but before Edward could get to it, he went back up north to visit his father. During his single month absent, Alphons went ahead to construct his own rocket, while also improving on the schematics. Dr. Oberth was more than pleased with it.

A month later, Edward returned to Rome, having celebrated his birthday a few days before. This means that the current time is most likely placed in early February. In London, England, he encountered Dee once again, but it was brief, so nothing much happened. Edward was a little irritated, but thankfully no one died.

Hohenheim decided once again to not follow his son south, but to head back to Munich instead, where he, uh . . . cohorts with the Thule Society. Again, that's more of a side story.

Currently, Ed and Alphons were pulling up to the Rome University, a grand building with white-washed walls and flying banners. It was a lot bigger than the Barcelonan Institute, and the building was much older than the rest of the city, being the heart of Italy.

Edward drew out his luggage from the back as Alphons paid the driver. Then they headed into the university.

"I still can't get used to the laid-back attitude of Italy," Edward remarked. "My kind of place."

"London too classy for you?"

"Just a little."

"Hmm."

"But the London countryside . . ."

"What about it?"

"It reminds me of home," Ed said.

"It is nice there. What was your home's name again?—the one in your dreams."

"Resembool."

"Ah, right. You still believe that your world exists?"

Edward frowned. "What are you talking about? Of course it exists, otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I?"

Alphons sighed. "Whatever. Let's hurry, okay? Everyone's waiting."

"Huh? What do you mean everyone's waiting? Are we having some kind of important meeting?"

"S . . . sort of," said Alphons. "You'll see; come on."

He pulled on Edward's jacket, and together they ascended the stairs, apologizing to those they accidentally bumped into along the way.

The interior of the university was reminiscent of a grand hotel. The sister city of Rome was Paris, and being one of the strongest economies in the world, it only made sense that Rome was equally lavished. Edward couldn't imagine studying in a place like this. It was far too distracting—no wonder Dr. Oberth never liked holding sessions in his office.

The whole team preferred the warehouse to this place. What made them suddenly decide to hold a meeting here?

On the other hand, Alphons would not let go of his arm.

"Alphons," he said. "Why are you so hasty?"

"Because! It's important."

"I don't see how that's a reason."

Alphons turned and watched him cautiously. "Are you sure _you're_ all right, Ed? It's like you've changed recently."

"Me? Oh, no. Maybe aging has its perks."

"Really? You sound way too mature. Nothing else happened in England I should be notified about?"

"Alphons, stop worrying about me. I'm fine."

Eventually they arrived at Dr. Oberth's door. These set of large double-doors actually led to his classroom, which was basically a huge lecture hall with raised platforms, getting lower and lower as you reach the front. His office was at the left side of the lecture hall. All the lights were off.

"You were saying people were here?" said Edward.

"Just trust me," Alphons stated, leading the way.

He reached the door first and laid a hand on the knob. Edward didn't know why he was being so apprehensive; just get it over with, was what he thought.

Then, Alphons knocked on the door three times. "Hello? Dr. Oberth? It's Alphons. I have Edward with me."

There was some shuffling inside, and Alphons took this as a cue and opened the door.

It was dark inside. There didn't seem to be any people. But obviously the earlier scuffling wasn't imaginary. Edward was getting tired of this. Were they holding a meeting or not?

Suddenly, all at once that Edward couldn't it process properly, the lights flashed on and the entire rocket team popped out from being the furniture, yelling _SURPRISE!_ while someone else showered him with dried rose petals.

"Oh no . . ." he said, wishing to be anywhere but here. "Oh no. You guys didn't."

"Yes, we did!" Dr. Oberth said and Edward threw his head back with exasperation. "Happy belated birthday, birthday boy! Seventeen, kid! That's an accomplishment!"

Edward groaned and covered his face with his hands, embarrassment clearly showing through. "You didn't have to. Honestly, you didn't! Oh, God . . ." He watched as Dr. Oberth came around with a cake. "No, no, no. Not the cake. No!"

But everyone else was gripping him in place. Even sweet Alphons was in one this—he was in on this from the very start!

_When I get my hands on him, I'll . . ._

"Now, make a wish," Oberth sang.

"I don't want to," Edward resisted. "No! Let go of me!"

"Make a wish!" they all ordered.

He had no choice.

Edward made his wish—_I hope they all die and rot in the deepest, darkest pit of hell—_and blew out the candles. Everyone cheered, but they kept him in a firm arm-lock.

This was the tradition of the rocket team. This had happened once before to Samuel Hunter, a member of the team, when his birthday came around, and Edward had been on it. It was customary to wish one a happy birthday, and after they blow out the candles, you shove the whole cake in their face.

Edward thought he would avoid this by spending his birthday with his father, but it seemed Dr. Herman Oberth's Supreme Rocketry Team did not forget such things easily.

"You think you're so smart, do you, Edward," said Herman. "Well. Happy birthday, kid."

And Edward got a face-full of cake.

"Nice, nice," he said, wiping the cake off as everyone burst into laughter. "Think it's so funny, huh?" He whipped portions of the cake at them, and smeared the rest on Oberth's face. "Don't worry about it!" he said, smirking. "There's plenty to go around for everyone! I'm feeling generous today!"

When Alphons saw Edward going for him, he starting back away, shaking his head. "No, no, Edward. It's your birthday. I'm feeling kind of queasy anyway—my doctor says I can't eat sweets for a while—"

"Bullshit, Alphons. C'mere!"

Eventually he was caught and cake-a-fied. Edward rubbed a whole fistful into his hair for good measure. But they laughed it out and embraced like good ol' brothers.

Currently the birthday boy was receiving some gifts and hugs from the rest of the guys, and if someone came around to poke fun at his _cakeface_, he'd bat them off and headbutt them so they'd end up more cakier than he was.

Edward had dreaded this moment, but now he had to admit it was fun getting back at them. Dr. Oberth's birthday was coming up in three weeks anyway. Plenty enough time for him to scheme an appropriate revenge.

"So how was your so-called vacation?" Herman asked, grinning triumphantly. "Thought you could avoid us forever?"

"You're lucky I can only go away for a month," Edward stated, "otherwise I'd spend my life in England for eternity, never having to see any of your faces again. For your information, it was quite relaxing."

"I thought you'd never say that," Alphons said.

Edward shrugged. "Dad's not as bad as he used to be. He knows some cool spots too. I'd never thought Stonehenge was a site for one of the most ancient transmutation circles in the world."

"You don't say."

"I'm serious. Since they're made of the stone, the circle is somewhat eternal. But do you see the way most of the pillars are crumbling and missing? The circle hasn't been operated in centuries—I wonder what the builders were thinking making one . . . It's been unable to activate as far as I'm concerned. And it's not like I can repair the whole thing and see . . ."

"Exactly," Oberth said, nodding. "Stonehenge is renowned because it's in such a state. If you restore something, then it loses its value. Its mystery is its fame."

"You lot talking about Stonehenge?" asked a member, named Connor Mc'Neal. He was blond-haired, blue-eyed, half-Irish and half-German, and loved all things English. "Yeah, Ed, while you were up there, did you get to visit the Devil's Arrow? Never saw it myself in real life. You had to have visited the Saint Paul's Cathedral, right? Didn't you go to London? Did you see the Big Ben? Went there myself once, didn't see everything, but it was certainly all spectacular! Cathedrals are wondering pieces of architecture, aren't they? Don't you love them? Did you manage to see the York Minster Cathedral? I heard they had tons of museums. Did you get to see the five-hundred-year-old portable they have? Bloody brilliant that is. The food, though, is the best. Roasted lamb is the yummiest for me in my opinion, but that's because my mother was Irish. Did you try their apple pie? Mmm, delicious. Okay, you _had_ to have visited the Tower of London. It's so well-known! What did you do there, anyway? Huh? Why aren't you saying anything? Ed? Edward? Oh yeah! I forgot about the Louvre—did you see it? What about—?"

"Connor," Oberth said. "Stop. Seriously. You're going to give poor Edward a heart attack." (ALL of us a heart attack, not just Ed, including the readers, am I right? Oh, Connor. You silly thing.)

Edward stared blankly at Connor, blinking between equal intervals. "Um," he said. "Yes."

"Huh?"

"Yes, no, yes, yes, hell no—the church hymns are annoying, no, no . . . fuck no—what the hell, man?, no it isn't, okay, yes, yes, can't say, because, and no—the Louvre is in France." He paused to take a breath. "Is that all?"

"Er, yeah. Could you repeat that?"

"No. Any other questions? England is a big place, after all."

Oberth burst out laughing at Connor's ridiculous expression, and Alphons even managed a few chuckles himself. Lars Holland, yet another member, steered the confused Connor away, promising them he'd take care of him while Edward enjoyed the rest of his second 17th birthday.

"Today is the only day where you can scar people like that, Edward," Herman Oberth chided.

"What are you saying? _He_ scarred _me_. Five-hundred-year-old portables? What the hell . . ."

"That was kind of strange," admitted Alphons. "Connor has always been an easily-excitable person."

"Well, thanks for holding this party for me, guys," said Edward. "It's been a blast. Really." He yawned and stretched. "Buuut, it's been a tiring ride here, and I could really use the sleep. I've long learned train rides are the worst places to sleep." He rubbed his aching backside to prove the point.

Herman laughed. "All right. The party's pretty much done anyhow. Alphons, you and Ed go back to your apartment first. Us men shall clean up the mess, won't we, lads?"

Half of the team groaned while the more helpful gentlemen smiled.

"There you have it," finished the doctor. "Have a happy birthday again, Edward."

"Thanks. And, um . . ." He regarded the room at large. "Thank you all for being so considerate."

He even did a little bow and left the room, leaving behind a dozen faces of pure astonishment. Alphons was one of them. He quickly caught up to his friend and closed the office door behind him.

"Ed. Hey," he tried to get his attention, catching his arm. "That was mighty nice of you to say those things back there. You sure you're all right?"

"What? Yeah. I'm fine. I think it's just the fatigue." Edward sighed. "But it was really generous of them to do this. It shows they care, doesn't it?"

"But you're never so emotionally attached."

"I guess it's because I'm finally starting to consider someone family."

Alphons tensed.

"You know, ever since I left my world, there have been people I missed dearly. One of them is my brother, whom I don't know if he's truly alive. I have another friend, and a granny. I had an idiot superior and all his caring officers. Then there are all the people I've met on my journey, getting here . . .

"Since then, I've never grown attached to anyone else—even my own father I avoid more than I should—because I feared that if they can be stripped away from me so easily, then it's better if I don't try to meet new people so the same thing doesn't have to happen again. You could say that I'm simply being a coward for thinking like this, but I honestly do not wish ill will on any more people. Now, it seems, I finally have people in my life that I consider more than good friends. Including you."

"Ed, you . . ."

Edward suddenly grew irritated. "I'm not trying to be sentimental, or admit that I've changed this past month, but you can say I've realized what's important to me, and the _value_ that every single life in that office room holds. If something were to happen to them, I'd protect them with my life."

"Is that why you never get close to anyone?"

"Yeah. What I don't have I can't lose, you could say. Dad says I'm endlessly bitter about the past, but, if you knew the story, it's quite understandable. I've lost _everyone_ and _everything_ that I had all at the same time . . . You can understand that I do not want another repeat. Now stop looking at me like I'm crazy, Alphons. My bed is calling for me. I suspect you've kept it spick and span?"

Edward continued walking forward like the conversation between them never happened, and Alphons snapped out of his silence, making haste to catch up.

For some odd reason, he was having some new-found respect for Edward.

* * *

><p>When they got to the apartment they shared, something definitely had gone down the few hours they were away.<p>

Edward felt déjà vu. It was only a few months ago that police littered the street, blocking the exits and asking passersby for information. Now, it was strikingly close to home—much too close—right outside the lobby to the building.

He silently hoped that no lives were lost. If some were, he wished to not hear about it. If only he had that luxury when it came to Dr. Scheppelevich's death . . .

Sirens blared, the area was sealed off with yellow tape. The whole building was being evacuated. The residents stood on the streets, heads held high and looking up at the very top of the apartment.

The scene reminded Edward too much of Barcelona. He never forgot about that incident. He'd been thinking about it every night, lying in his bed for hours, wondering the true reasons for Scheppelevich's death, and what he'd been secretly researching.

There was too little he had to go on. He wasn't sure yet.

"Linda, what's going on?" Alphons asked the landlady, who was standing at the side in her bathrobe, glaring at the officers who patrolled the area.

"They just came," said the Italian. "They came, told us to get out, spouting some _stronzate_ about a runaway criminal that decided to choose the building as a hideout. They had to check everyone of us; so cruel."

"But I was here just this afternoon. I would have known—"

"_Esattamente_. But they are Interpol. They are fast. I only listened to reason because I worried for the safety of everyone in the building. If Interpol is here, it means whoever this _idiota_ is, he's dangerous."

"No one was hurt, right?"

"No, not by the criminal. Carlos was injured when the policemen rounded us all up. He tripped and fell."

"Is he all right?"

"Right now, yes. I just hope these men do not break anything. Otherwise, they will suffer my wrath and pay with their _vita_."

Linda was a scary woman when she wanted to be. She had a severe, sharp face and cold eyes that made you instantly cower whenever she fixed you with them. Alphons had once heard a rumour that she could curse you just with a simple look.

"When do you think they'll be gone?" he asked her.

"Not soon," replied Linda. "I don't think we'll be back in there by bedtime. Better start calling some relatives, _figlio_. Don't want you sleeping on the streets tonight."

"_Grazie_, Linda, but what about y—"

"You're wasting your time," came Edward's voice from nearby.

Alphons turned and saw that he was speaking with one of the officials, wearing his usual almighty bastard face. _Ed, you big idiot! What are you doing NOW? Stop provoking them! Do you want to get arrested again?!_

"Young man," said the detective he was speaking to, "I'm going to ask you to kindly leave the case to us. I would know if this is all unnecessary. However, the criminal is in the building, and we are sealing the exits off to confine him so he doesn't try to escape."

"And I repeat," Edward said, "_you are wasting your time_. If you're trying to prevent him from escaping, then he would have _tried_ already, don't you think, instead of waiting around in there quietly. But you are getting no resistance whatsoever. Doesn't that seem a little bit fishy to you?"

The man frowned. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying he's long gone. It's not like he's simply not trying to escape, or if he's unafraid of you. If Interpol are here, it means this is serious business—meaning, you're not dealing with the average crook. This guy's smart, and he knows you know. Therefore, he won't hesitate to show off his cleverness."

To prove his statement true, an officer exited the building and approached the man, whispering something into his ear. And then the man gave him orders and the officer went back inside.

"None of your men have found him yet, have you?" Edward said.

"No. But that doesn't mean he's not in there."

"How about you send some men off to scout a five-mile radius, just in case?"

"Do you expect me to take that kind of advice, young man? You look nothing but fourteen."

_He did NOT just go there._

"Who are you calling," he growled slowly, "a beansprout THAT REQUIRES A MICROSCOPE TO BE SEEN?! I AM NOT FUCKING FOURTEEN; I'M _SEVENTEEN_, GOT THAT, _BASTARDO_?"

Said bastard was cringing away at this terror, trying his best to not appear intimidated. Or perhaps he was just wincing at the terrible Italian pronunciation that Edward had executed.

It was then Alphons came over, smacking Edward at the back of the head.

"Don't be rude," he chastised. To the man, he said, "Sorry about him, he's always like this, Mr. . . . Oh. I don't know your name."

"Hm, er, Niccolo. Niccolo Machiavelli."

"My apologies, _Signor_ Machiavelli. Edward does not know when to show respect and express his anger. It seems he can lose his temper and yet still have one at the same time."

Edward glared at Alphons. "Even you don't believe me? I told you, whoever you're looking for—he's gone!"

"Edward, not this again . . ."

"You'd best listen to him," said a new voice.

Well, not quite new. Edward knew this voice. It was becoming _far_ too familiar now, almost sickeningly so.

"Hello, Doctor Dee," he drawled sarcastically. "Fancy seeing you here. What a surprise."

John Dee frowned, ducking under the yellow tape to stand beside Machiavelli. "Honestly, we've only met twice. I don't see why you need to take that tone with me, Edward."

"Met twice? Need I remind you that we've been on a 24 hour trip together through the Pennines. Trust me, I got to know you more than I've never wanted to. It was a terrible experience."

"You're exaggerating, surely."

"You two . . . know each other?" Machiavelli asked.

"Yes," Dee replied. "Like I said earlier, you'd best listen to Edward. He smart for one so vulgar. The escapee has, well, escaped. He is no longer in the building."

"How could I have not known this?"

Dee smiled. "Well, let's just say you're not quite on par with your job."

"And _you_ are? What are you even doing here, John? You don't work in Interpol, and I don't remember ever inviting you. Get out of my crime scene."

"I came by because you're obviously having problems catching the blasted criminal. I decided to spare you some of my help."

"Help? I don't need your help."

"Then stop standing around here, Nico, and do your job. Wait until I tell your boss about you conversing with a fourteen-year-old boy while you should obviously be catching your target."

Edward shuddered with rage. _If they get my age wrong one. More. Time._ _I'm going to fucking blow their heads off with their own guns._

It seems Alphons noticed this, and he lay a warning hand on his shoulder. He shook his head, hoping Edward would get the message: _Not in front of them. What we need to worry about is a bed to sleep in tonight, agreed?_

"Fine," Edward said.

They moved away from the still arguing men.

"Where are we going to stay? That's the problem," said Alphons. "All these people probably have families living elsewhere in Rome, but we're here alone. We can't just pop over to one of the team members' places and load off over there."

Edward had a scheming gleam in his eye. "Actually, let's do that. We'll crash Herman's place to pay him back for that embarrassing shit he put me through this evening."

"Edward! Can't you be serious for once?"

"Hey, Alphons, you know that feeling when you're really, _really_ tired, and suddenly you're super hyper, and you're not feeling tired anymore, and you feel like you can stay awake forever with all this energy bouncing around in your body?"

"Ed, use a period already."

"Well! I feel like that right now. So let's go pull some crap and bunk with someone for the night. I'm _sooooooo_ exhausted right now."

"What the hell's wrong with you?"

"All the seriousness earlier was too mushy for me. I'm welcoming this hyper bliss."

Alphons rolled his eyes, dragging Edward behind him. "Lord so help me," he prayed. "Let's hope Dr. Oberth is kind enough to let us stay over. Hopefully tomorrow Interpol would be gone and we can finally return to our apartment."

"Fucking toothpicks . . ."

_I'm not going to ask why he's talking about toothpicks._

Alphons hailed a cab and he shoved Edward inside, who was suddenly too interested in a lamppost. Then he told the driver the address and they sped off into the waning sunset.

The whole way, Edward wouldn't sit still. He still had some leftover cake still mashed on his face from when he messily cleaned it earlier. Alphons sighed and took out his signature book, trying to disappear into its world and act like he didn't know Edward at all.

When the cab jerked to a halt, he stashed his book away and hauled Ed after him. He paid the driver and turned back around, walking past the iron-gates and into the huge estate that was Dr. Herman Oberth's home. Edward came up behind him.

"I only been here once, but _wow_. This place is neat."

"Don't you dare start concocting mixtures again," Alphons warned. "Dr. Oberth loves his rosebushes. If he found out that you messed them up even a little bit . . ."

Edward bat his hand. "Relax, Alphons. I'm doing no such thing tonight."

"Yeah? What about tomorrow, then?"

Edward ignored him. He started walking towards the front door, the elaborate entrance to the just as grand mansion. He banged on the door with his right arm.

"He has a doorbell!" Alphons hissed, face palming.

"Yeah, I know that. I just wanted to piss him off a little bit."

"GRAHSHGASGHSGAHSJGHWOR—!"

The door opened, and Alphons had to cut of his ragequit early. A maid stood in the threshold, a little bit surprised.

"Can I . . . help you?" she said.

"Yeah," said Edward. "We wanted to know if—"

Alphons kicked him. "Letmedothetalking," he coughed out. He smiled at the maid. "Sorry about him. I also apologize for the sudden visit, but we need to ask a favour of Dr. Herman Oberth. May we step inside?"

The maid blinked. "Well, um, sure. Come on in."

She led them into the living room where they sat down on embroidered couches. A moment later Dr. Oberth came down, looking very surprised at their presence, perhaps slightly concerned as well.

"What's this about?" he said.

Edward was sprawled all over the one-seater, curled up and snoring. Alphons took the liberty to explain their situation to the Herman himself, leaving out no details. Then he asked the scientist about staying over for the night.

"We'll leave in the morning. Interpol should be gone by then."

"If it's a place to stay for the night," said Oberth, "I'd be glad to help out. After all, you are my students. However, I'm a bit concerned for Edward." He turned around and Alphons followed his gaze. "Are you sure he's been all right?"

Alphons shrugged. "That's what he said."

"I don't really want to move him," continued the scientist.

"That's fine. I'm sure it doesn't matter what kind of furniture it is. He'd sleep on the table if the situation warranted it."

"Let's hope not. You can take the guest bedroom upstairs."

"No need. I'll occupy the couch tonight. Sometimes Ed has the tendency to sleepwalk—you know how he dreams about _that_ place occasionally. I'll be keeping an eye on him."

"All right . . . If you're sure."

"Again, sorry about all this. It was all very sudden, and Ed insisted on your place, so . . ."

"Ah." Herman suddenly got a dark look in his eyes. "So this was his idea, huh?"

Alphons waved his hands frantically. "Eh, w-we'll be gone in the morning! Promise! I'll keep an eye on him, like I said!"

"You better. Don't let him break anything or touch my roses again."

From over in his place on the chair, Edward laughed softly.

"It's like he knows," Alphons muttered.

"I think he does."

"It was only a one-time thing."

"Make sure you keep it that way."

Alphons shivered. "Yes, sir."

"All right, then. I best be off to bed, now. Come, Angela. Goodnight, Alphons."

Alphons expressed his goodnight and both the maid and Oberth disappeared up the ornate stairwell. Then he collapsed onto the couch and glared shamelessly at Edward.

_I know I shouldn't be blaming him for all this but . . ._ "It happened on the day you came back, Ed," he told the sleeping blond. "You better not touch anything, or I swear I'll . . ."

Edward's loud snores interrupted him.

"You know what?" He flipped around moodily, so his back faced his friend. "I'm not even going to bother."

* * *

><p>After the two blonds had departed, John Dee faced Machiavelli.<p>

"Owen Tyler is no longer in the building," he said.

"No," agreed Niccolo. "This Edward boy was right. He was _right_. John, if you think about how this is a magical affair, you'd think the average humani would never guess. Tell me, where did you come across him?"

Dee got a thoughtful look in his eyes and peered up at the apartment building. "It was back in Barcelona. He was supposed to become Scheppelevich's new student. I have no idea what happened to him after the man's death, but we met up again in England. He is a very interesting young man."

Machiavelli gave his colleague a disapproving shake of his head. "Why must you always resort to such tactics? This is exactly why I do not trust you with such information."

"Ah, but I was right, wasn't I? Rather, Edward Elric was right. Tyler is gone."

"This is what I don't get," announced the Italian. "Why is it always the Rocketry scientists? Why is it they always uncover what shouldn't be known by humani? It'll only get them killed. Arnold Scheppelevich was a prime example."

"Because the science of Rocketry permits unimaginable amounts of ideas to rise. It'd be about time that all rocketeers realized the inter-dimensional travel rockets can bring. Scheppelevich had found out about the Shadowrealms because of the countless theories he'd come up with associated to Rocketry."

"Yes, but why must Rocketry become taboo? At first, it was simply harmless science. Now all those who know it must perish? John, you tell me why this is so."

Dee smiled. "Niccolo, when have you gotten so soft? You're often so heartless and cold. It is our masters that utter the commands. We simply put action to it."

Machiavelli was grinding his jaw in agitation. "Then I suppose . . ." he said, ". . . we should call back the men and pursue Owen Tyler. Interpol wasn't even supposed to be involved in this case, but since I'm the head, my master asked me to call on their help. Holding all these residence outside is unnecessary, especially at this time of day."

"We should also consider the place of his work, no?" offered the Englishman. "I believe it was Warehouse B that he built rockets at."

Dee had a malicious glint in his eyes, and Machiavelli was quick to point that out to him.

"What are you thinking, John? Don't go and do anything rash that doesn't warrant the action."

"No, no . . . I was just thinking. You can never be too careful about others who have uncovered the secret."

"Others? John, please don't. Are you thinking what I hope you're not thinking? You cannot go and put a stop to those who have no proof of committing treason!"

John Dee started walking away with his hands grasping his trademark cane. "Goodbye, Nico. You better start rounding up those men. Owen Tyler may very well be gone by now. It's time I deal with some criminals, hmm?"

Machiavelli had a _really_ bad feeling about this, even though, long ago, he had abandoned such an emotion.

Panic.

_Dread._

* * *

><p>Edward woke up with a throbbing pain in his neck.<p>

Secondly, he was lying face-first on rough carpet. He jumped and surveyed his surroundings, vaguely remembering that he'd arrived at Herman Oberth's house and had carelessly fallen asleep on his mentor.

Oops.

Oh well. He was still hung up about the whole cake-to-the-face ceremony.

Looking to the right, he spotted Alphons, still asleep, lying on a couch looking similarly to the chair he was seated in before. (At least, he thought he slept in that before he fell over.)

He decided against shaking him awake. Instead he made his way to the kitchens, where the maid Angela was preparing breakfast.

When she saw him, she nearly dropped the teapot in her hands.

"Oh my," she said, pressing a hand to her chest to steady her racing heart. "You scared me, Mr. Elric."

"Don't call me that," he said. "Just Ed, is fine. Edward, if you have to."

"Well, all right . . ."

"Do you know where Dr. Oberth went?" he asked, cutting to the chase. "Couldn't hear his obnoxious humming at all."

Angela pursed her lips and turned so he couldn't see her face. "I'm afraid," she began, "that something came up. The Master has gone to his office to see to the paperwork. Hopefully he can bring Owen home . . ."

"Owen? You mean Owen Tyler?"

Edward, though sometimes oblivious, read the situation perfectly this time. It wasn't good. Angela's hands were shaking as she poured the tea into cups.

"What happened," he said.

She shook her head. "I don't know. He didn't tell me. I was there when he got the phone call. His face went completely white, and I saw . . . He was angry. So, so very angry. He kept saying Owen's name and promising that he'd bring him home. I asked what happened, but he refused to say. He flew out the door and hasn't returned or called once."

Edward narrowed his eyes. "He's at his office right now, correct?"

"That's right. But what does that have to do with—?"

"Once Alphons wakes up, tell him I'll be at the warehouse. Don't let him leave the mansion, though."

"Wait, what are you going to do?"

"It's strictly my business only." Edward started out the door. "I'm sorry."

* * *

><p>His destination was the warehouse, but he needed to talk with Oberth too.<p>

The first thing he noticed about the factory were the amount of police activity surrounding the area. It looked the same as yesterday, at their apartment, and identical to the Barcelona incident.

Was this a trend or something?

Edward stepped out of the taxi he hailed and made his way over to the entrance. The front doors were barred by yellow tape. Two guards were positioned at the sides. Countless police vehicles were blocking further admission to the back of the warehouse.

"What's going on?" he asked one of the guards.

"None of your business, kid. Scram."

That wasn't very nice.

"I'd like to know," Edward tried again. "I work here."

"Unfortunately for you, this place is closed off for the time being. Further research has been suspended."

"On whose authorization?" He was seriously pissed off now.

"Kid, I'm going to ask you to leave right now. I honestly don't know how you got through the parking lot with the tight security around here."

Just then, another guard showed up and latched a hand around the crook of Edward's elbow.

"Sir," he said. "You're not supposed to be here. Private scene, sorry. Time to move."

Edward glared at the offending hand and shook it off of him. "Does this whole thing have to do with Owen Tyler or whatever?" he demanded at the first guard.

"Well, yeah, obviously. What, you know him?"

"Yes, I do. I work with him. He's a respectable man."

The guard scoffed. "Hardly. Look here, kid. He's being chased by the upper half of the government. They don't want him to be running a-muck among these streets. He's not safe."

"You're incompetent."

"Oi! You don't need to go that far!"

"And _you_ could do your job so much better."

"That's it," said the newest guard. "I'm calling security."

Edward snickered. "Aren't _you_ the security?"

"I meant backup, dumbass."

"Well."

Edward glared daggers at the man. He didn't take kindly to being called an idiot. Although, that simply meant he required more people to be neutralize, right? At least they weren't underestimating him.

"You know what, gents?" he said, smiling. "I'll show myself out. See you later."

After all, he knew this factory inside and out. He knew the secret passageways, the nooks, the crannies. Finding a way inside with all the guards patrolling the area was easy as pie.

He needed to get inside and see what they were doing with the place. All their research and rockets were in there. No member of the team could afford them being tampered by ignorant hands.

Edward started to walk away from the front entrance, forcing himself to appear nonchalant and without a second purpose. When he made sure that none of the guards followed him, he ducked behind a pile of cardboard boxes and carefully shuffled across the perimetre of the warehouse. He kept himself hidden from the police stationed in the parking lot by hiding behind conveniently placed barriers.

Once he reached the very back of the warehouse, which was less heavily guarded, Edward swung himself onto a huge metal garbage bin. His target destination was the open window above his head. Reaching up and clasping the sill with both hands, he swiftly lifted himself up.

Sometimes, a small body came in handy. He was just never going to admit that out loud.

Looking from side-to-side, Edward slid his body in through the window, double-checking that no one saw him do it.

There was another passageway he found one time, but it was more used for getting out than getting in, because a lot of old containers and packaging barred the way. It was harder finding it from the outside, because it was so cleverly camouflaged with the outer walls. He knew the inside location, though.

Edward shut the window behind him and jumped down, landing rather noisily on the metal grating that made up a good portion of the upper floor platforms.

This alerted the guards stationed down below him, and when they looked up, Edward quickly lay flat down on his stomach to avoid being detected.

Thankfully, the guards looked away without a second thought. Edward got to his feet steadily, caution on high alert.

_Now, _he thought. _Where is everyone?_

There was a high chance that they were being held for questioning. For what, he didn't know yet exactly. But that possibility brought around a load of other questions. For one, if the Rocketry team were being interrogated, then why wasn't _he_ brought in along with them? The guards told him to leave, even after he explained he worked at the warehouse.

Edward, with his back to the wall, shimmied across the metal platform to the stairs leading down onto the main floor. The use of the platform was to maneuver the giant crane that helped to lift heavy loads. Right now, the chain connecting to the hook was lowered, enough to allow someone to climb up.

_I could use this as an escape route later. Let's just hope I won't need another one._

Once he got down safely, the blond tiptoed over to the briefing room and peered in, only to immediately duck away as he caught the presence of the entire Rocketry team, safe for him, Alphons, Herman, and Owen Tyler.

They weren't being interrogated at all. They were being held in _confinement_.

_This is utter mutiny,_ Edward thought. _They have no right to do this._

A guard blocked the door to the briefing room, which also acted as the main lunch area. Unbeknownst to him, Edward tapped on the glass of a window, announcing his presence to the people inside. The guard simply bristled, expecting one of his prisoners to be randomly knocking on glass to pass the time. He paid the disturbance no heed. After all, people were bound to get bored.

"_Let me in,_" Edward mouthed to his fellow rocketeers.

Each and every one of them turned to see what the racket was, and then consecutively, all their eyes widened.

Connor Mc'Neal was the closest to his window. The half Irish-German glanced at the guard, and then moved over to let Edward in.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed.

Edward held a finger to his lips. "_When the window's shut,_" he mouthed.

The blond nimbly stepped through the opening and closed the window, making no sound as he did. And then, just as quietly, he moved over to the door and sat down with his back against it, so the guard couldn't see him. They stood back-to-back on opposites sides of the door. It was the only safe place he could talk with the team.

"You need to leave," said Lars. "Right now."

"Not yet," Edward spoke. "I need to know what's going on."

"We don't know any more than you do," said Connor. "Ed, it's dangerous. Listen to Lars and go, quickly, before the guard finds out you're in here."

"Those assholes wouldn't even notice I wasn't with the original group they rounded up," Edward said. "I already told them I worked here—don't know why they didn't arrest me, too."

Connor bit his lip, but said nothing else.

"Edward, you're not _supposed to be here_," continued Lars, still strong to his point. "It's probably because you're still a child, and they'll let you go easier. But we're all grown men, here. Whatever any of us did, we will gladly accept our punishment."

"_Gladly_?" Edward repeated, anger rising. "So you'll just _accept_ all this bullshit?! You'll accept that Owen's gone AWOL and wanted by the government?"

"Owen?" murmured Samuel Hunter. "Why's he wanted? What happened? Is he all right?"

_What?_ "You don't . . . You don't know that—don't tell me they haven't informed you!"

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Ed?" Connor demanded.

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose, and heaved in a breath. "Looks like there's a lot they didn't tell us. How about we start with the reason why you're all in here, and _how_ you got in here."

"Mate, you ought to explain to us what happened with Owen."

"We'll get to that. We don't have much time, if you haven't noticed. The guard will realize I'm not supposed to be here any moment now . . ."

Lars was the one more inclined to explain their situation. All the others were either fuming or confused.

"It started early this morning. Connor, Ezekiel and I were first in at around 4 in the morning. We wanted to finish our rocket testing. About forty-five minutes later was when the first police car arrived. They stormed through the warehouse and told us they were taking us away. We didn't know what for, still don't, but now I'm guessing it has something to do with Owen. What has the lad done?"

Edward shook his head and urged the man to continue. He couldn't tell them his side of the story just yet.

"Well, all right then. Naturally we resisted. But then they cuffed us and stuffed us in here. The rest of the team came around an hour later. They were unsuspecting of the situation going on in here. It was utter chaos. Officers were running around, removing our equipment, putting it in the wrong places, tampering with the fuel tanks . . . Those blasted fools."

"Anything you noticed that was unusual?" Edward said.

"Now that you mention it, they've been dragging most of our things outside. But they never bring anything in. Except for these couple of barrels they keep stacked under the platform stairs. You ought to check them out; see what they are."

"Will do. Anything else?"

"Right, yes. After the rest of the team came, they removed our handcuffs and then quickly left the warehouse, only posting a few guards out and about. I suspect most of them are outside?"

"Yeah."

"Bet they're searching for more of us, eh?"

". . . Doubt it," Edward responded, cupping his chin in his hand.

"How come?"

"They didn't arrest me. It seemed they wanted me to leave badly. Which means they're not looking for more of the team to arrest—they're trying to keep everyone out and away. They must have decided to post everyone outside instead of inside because they realized if they didn't, they would need to round the people up when they accidentally walk into the warehouse."

"You think they're trying to hide our work?"

"Most likely."

"Why?"

Edward was silent for a moment. "That's a really good question," he surmised to himself.

"So, spill it," said Connor. "What happened with Owen?"

"I only heard that he's wanted by the police. I don't think he's been arrested yet, though."

"Do you think we're in here because of him?"

"It's possible you're all in here because you're suspects."

"That's ridiculous, though!"

"I agree," said Samuel. "We have done nothing wrong."

"I'm not saying you did," Edward said. "But that's what they—the government—thinks. We'll have to be careful from now on, gentlemen."

All of them nodded with solemn expressions.

"Have you also seen Herman around?" Connor asked, as if he'd just realized someone was missing. "He should've been here already."

"Yeah. He left half an hour ago, apparently, to head over to his office for an important business. It was about Owen. Also, I've guaranteed Alphons staying out of this mess."

"At least that's one less innocent brought into this," Lars sighed.

"Listen," said Edward, glaring at the wall opposite to him, "I'm going to head on over there right now. I want you all to stay in here for the time being and act like I was never here. I don't know where Owen is now, but I promise, if I see him, I'll bring him back, even if it means dragging him forcefully through hundreds of blasted government officials."

"Don't do anything rash, Edward. Promise me that."

"That was me a year ago. Now I'm just reckless with a purpose."

Lars looked about to reprimand him for thinking such a thing when something else going on outside the briefing room caught his eye. Edward frowned and stood, trying to see what got everyone's rapt attention.

Samuel pushed him none-too-gently back down.

"What?" Edward demanded.

Lars shushed him. "Listen, Ed, two guards just came into the warehouse. They're talking to a couple that were guarding the barrels. You should run for it right now—look, they're coming over!"

"You need to get going," Connor said, dragging the smaller blond towards the window. "They're probably asking for you."

"How would you know that? Let go of me, Connor, or I'll really be seen!"

Edward turned at that moment, catching sight of one of the guards maiming his suspect's height a bit above his collar bone.

_What? Is he trying to explain how tall I am?_

"I'm not that short!" the teenager objected.

"See? Which is why you need to leave right now."

"Goodbye, Edward," said Lars. "Until we meet again. Please, be careful."

The rocketeers shoved him out the window and closed it to quick for him to react. Edward placed a hand on the glass barrier, silently pleading them to let him in, but all they did was shake their heads.

_Please. Don't do this._

A guard was coming over to the briefing room right this instant. If he didn't leave . . .

He glanced back and forth between them all, an inner battle of decisions raging within his mind. There was no time—there was no other choice.

"_Wait for me,_" he told his team, and then crouched down, running for the barrels under the stairs. Hopefully he could hide there for a moment while the guards checked the briefing room. Afterwards he could leave, without anybody around to see him do it.

The minute Edward landed behind the barrels safe-and-sound without getting spotted, the first thing he noted was the smell.

He inhaled a few more times. No, this was right. He knew this smell.

Edward reached for a lid and propped it open, peering in and sampling a bit of the dark powder with his left hand.

"Gunpowder," he murmured.

_Gunpowder?_ What was gunpowder doing here of all places? Did the army decide to store all of their ammunition here after kicking them out of their workplace?

Most likely.

It seemed odd, though. If they were using this warehouse as storage, why weren't there any other weapons? Why _just _gunpowder?

A sudden yelp penetrated his thoughts. Golden eyes travelled over to the briefing room.

The doors were flung wide open. A guard was inside, trying to drag one of the Rocketry members out. Lars was arguing; his yells could be heard from all the way in Edward's spot behind the gunpowder barrels.

Then the guards dropped their victim and moved on over to Lars. Lars tried running for it, but he was caught and shoved aggressively towards the concrete floor.

Edward subconsciously stood, exposing himself to the entire police platoon, tensing as if ready to charge into a fight.

The guards stopped harassing the Rocketry team and fixed their eyes on the newest escapee.

Edward was frozen in his place. What should he do—help his coworkers or make a run for it?

One step forward decided it all.

"DON'T!" Lars barked sharply.

Time seemed to have literally stopped at that simple command.

"Don't come any closer," said the scientist. He narrowed his eyes. "Edward. Leave. Right now."

A step back.

The platoon captain was shouting orders at his underlings. They were pointing at Edward, forming a plan to catch the trespasser.

_Why?_

"GO, EDWARD! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, STARING LIKE A PINT-SIZED IDIOT. GET OUT OF HERE!"

That snapped him out of his cryogenic state. If these were different circumstances, he would have punched the man's ear for speaking such blasphemy about his height. But right now, Lars was sacrificing everything in order for him to get away safely . . .

Edward spun and tried to make a break for it.

Unfortunately, guards were right behind him.

_Why?_

He angled away at the stairs at the last second. The guards thought he was going to escape through there, and then they were sent careening into the metal railings, falling on top of each other and tangled in piles of appendages.

Edward ran straight for the lowered crane hook. His speed sent the chain swinging upwards as he latched on, and as he swung back around, a guard's face was conveniently placed where his feet were aiming for a kick.

There was a crunch and Edward let go, the chain pelting him forward. Edward flew all the way past the stairs as he landed back on the ground, rolling in somersaults to slow his momentum.

That confused the guards for a bit, but not long.

_Why?_

_Why does it have to be like this? Why does it ALWAYS have to be like this?  
><em>

_Wherever I go, whatever world it is, it's always the same. I'm always . . . __running. I'm always running to save the world, always running to save people's lives, always running from the very reason they all need saving, and always running away at the memory of my sins._

_When will it stop?  
><em>

_**Why** won't it stop?__  
><em>

"GET HIM!"

Edward willed himself to run faster.

Faster, faster—just a little more _faster_!

The secret passageway was around this corner . . . Right there! Behind the furnace cylinders!

Edward pried the metal grating away from the wall and jumped into the opening. For the next few seconds, all he registered was free-fall. The guard's voices were getting dimmer in the background, the wind rushing past his face.

"Outside, outside!" those voices yelled, muffled by the blood pounding in his ears. "Go around! Let him escape and the boss will have our heads! He must not know!"

_What does it matter? Now that I've abandoned them, what is my purpose? Where will I go?_

Sensing an oncoming obstacle, Edward braced himself, tensing his legs for the crash.

And then . . .

_BAM!_ He barrelled straight through solid brick wall. Fortunately enough, the bricks were already separated from each other, having been stacked there instead of stuck together with concrete.

Due to the speed of his fall, Edward flew right past all the bricks and landed near a few trash bags, which helped to cushion his stop. Although the smell was anything but enticing.

Shrugging off the numbing pain spreading through his legs, the blond got to his feet and ran down the back end of the warehouse. He could hear police activity already; sirens were filling the air noisily.

Honestly, for one person. All this trouble . . . for him.

"Better not underestimate me," Edward said. "I'll give you one hell of a chase."

He managed to avoid any direct encounters with law enforcements. Pretty soon, he found himself racing down Main Street, dodging pedestrians and avoiding all the traffic, making sure that he wasn't being followed.

But they simply weren't police for no reason. They were expected to do their job.

The officers appeared out of nowhere, emerging from an alley and pursuing him at a breakneck pace. He was already exhausted, to start.

Edward jumped over a stall and pushed crates of food into their path. The merchant at the stand cursed his existence in Italian, but he had no time to worry about him.

_I'm sorry._

Next, he tried something really daring.

The former military officer pulled himself onto an awning, and then climbed onto a roof altogether. The officers below peered up and argued amongst themselves on the best way of catching the perpetrator.

Edward looked down at them from his place on the rooftop. "Good luck with catching me, gents," he said. "I don't plan on letting you capture me so easily."

Their faces screwed up into the perfect picture of confusion.

"Well." He saluted. "Bye."

Edward turned heel and ran, bounding from rooftop to rooftop. This was the best way to get to the university. The houses in Rome were closely packed together, and Oberth's office was on the second floor anyway, so why couldn't he simply latch on to the side of the building and climb in through the window?

It was easy enough. In theory.

Of course in theory, he wasn't being pursued by a dozen police officers and countless other backup divisions.

Nor was he running for his life. His free, jail-less life.

"Fuck," he swore. "Why did I even run?"

_It's stupid. If I hadn't run, then I wouldn't be a wanted man. I should have just played innocent._

There was no turning back now. The huge university complex loomed tall over him, casting a shadow five houses down.

Window, window, he kept thinking to himself. He needed an open window!

He found just the one, its sill just two feet above his head. Edward leaped with all his might and latched on to the side, using his feet to scramble up the side. At the same time, he clawed inwards, pulling himself forward.

Unfortunately he landed on his face. He'd been through far worst than face planting the ground, however. He decided to take his anger out on the window, slamming it down so hard the lock broke off.

"_I am not sorry,_" he snarled at it, thankful it couldn't retort with a comeback.

If only all people could be like windows and simply take crap without doing shit about it.

Edward blazed through the corridors until he arrived at the familiar lecture hall that housed Dr. Herman Oberth's office. The office door was wide open. From the entryway of the lecture hall, Edward could easily picture Herman and another man, arguing with each other using agitated gestures. Their loud voices carried easily throughout the hall.

". . . don't see why it's an issue!" Oberth shouted.

"I _told_ you, he's been taken in for questioning!" yelled the other person.

His voice was definitely familiar. Edward couldn't quite place it since a speaking voice and a yelling voice were totally different.

As he moved closer to the door, the face of the other struck up a recent memory. Edward clenched his fists, though he didn't understand why. There was no telling whether or not the Italian before him issued the order, but . . .

"Machiavelli," he stated.

Heads turned. The argument was postponed for the time being.

"Edward?" Herman said, squinting at the blond. He often called Edward 'Ed', but when he started using real names, you knew he was pissed. "What are you doing here?"

"Yes," agreed Edward, turning to Machiavelli. "What _are_ you doing here?"

Niccolo raised his eyebrows at the cleverly placed wording. "Mr. . . . Elric, I presume?"

"I'm honoured that you, such a high official in the justice system, remembered my name," the blond deadpanned. "Now answer my damned question, bastard."

Oberth didn't object or berate Edward's insults towards Machiavelli. In fact, he was feeling pretty much the same way.

"I do not think I've done something that warranted such hostility," said the Italian. "I simply came here to inform Dr. Oberth on the news of Owen Tyler's arrest."

"Yeah, no _shit_."

"He has not been harmed, I assure you. He's in detainment, but we will not harm him."

"You aren't telling us everything!" Herman said. "You haven't told me _exactly_ why he was arrested!"

"I cannot tell you that because the information is confidential."

"Confidential my a—"

"So that's who you were trying to catch at the apartment," Edward stated as a matter-of-factly. "You know, I thought you were better than that idiot Dee, but apparently I was wrong."

"Owen Tyler was arrested because he had uncovered governmental documents that are kept from the citizens for a reason! There is nothing I can do about it!"

"If you know it was an accident, _do_ something about it!" Edward snapped. "Don't just stand there like a helpless fool. That's what you are, right? A simple pawn!"

Machiavelli took a step back like he'd been slapped. "I—I'm not—How dare you . . . !"

"I'm going to make this fast because currently I'm being chased by a dozen officers that want to arrest me," said Edward. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but our Rocketry team is being kept in confinement _even though you already have Owen Tyler_, and they have nothing to do with any of this. I'm going to ask you _nicely_ to call off the guards and let them go."

Now the Italian was confused.

"Confinement?" he said, like he was trying to remember something that never happened. "But . . . I never issued such an order. The objective was to capture Owen Tyler, not keep the rest of the Rocketry team under watch—" Suddenly he cut himself off, eyes widening. "Oh, _no_ . . ."

"What!" Edward demanded.

"Dee . . . Yesterday, he—"

"Dammit!" screamed the blond. He bolted out of the office, and then stopped halfway, turning around and pointing an accusing finger at the Italian. "This is all _your_ fault! You should have never let him into the case!"

"I know, but I—"

"NO!" Edward said. "_Shut. Up._ Do you want to know what he's been planning this whole time you were busy chasing Owen?!"

"But he told me . . . He was working between the sidelines. He said—"

"_Goodbye, Nico. You better start rounding up those men. Owen Tyler may very well be gone by now. It's time I deal with some criminals, hmm?_"

"He has gallons of gunpowder stored in the warehouse!" Edward screamed at him. "He's going to blow the _fucking place to smithereens and kill every single person in it!_"

Machiavelli felt that same emotion again. _Dread_.

"No, no, no!" he told himself.

_I hadn't planned this. Dee wasn't supposed to target the other scientists. They were supposed to be strictly kept out of this. The only offender was Owen Tyler. None of the others had arrived at the conclusion that both he and Scheppelevich had arrived at.  
><em>

"What are you saying, Edward?" Oberth demanded.

The teen fisted his hands and pressed them against his eyes. "Everyone held in confinement . . . They're still there because they were supposed to die from the start. And I . . . I couldn't do anything about it. I ran away from them! I left them to die!"

He whirled around and ran. In the distance, a collective of shouts and heavy boots pounded against the ground, getting closer and closer to the lecture hall.

"Edward!" Oberth yelled. "Come back here!"

A hand grabbed his shoulder, stopping his advance. Machiavelli was shaking his head.

"I hadn't planned this," he said. "I'm truly sorry for your loss, Dr. Oberth."

"Don't talk like my team's already dead! Edward's resourceful; he'll get them out!"

"I'm sorry," Machiavelli said again.

Herman shrugged his hand off. "I don't need your sympathy," he spat bitterly. "You owe me this much. Tell me what's going on."

"My partner," the Italian began slowly, "has taken matters into his own hands to eradicate the problem."

"And my Rocketry team is the problem."

"No, of course not. Only Owen Tyler was convicted of treason, and we got him. But late last night, when Tyler had yet to be captured, my partner declared that he had criminals to take care of. At the time, I didn't know what he meant. I'm truly sorry, I had no idea he was speaking about your team. If I'd known, I would have stopped his attempt at 'erasing all evidence associated with the criminal'."

"_Let me get this straight_. Basically, he's got tons of gunpowder loaded around and in the warehouse, wired to blow up the facility, all our work and research, and my team," Oberth stated, unable to keep his voice was trembling. But not from sadness, but anger. Full-blown, uncontainable anger. He took a step forward and shoved Machiavelli in the chest. "And you didn't let me stop him! EDWARD IS JUST A BOY! HE COULDN'T HAVE KNOWN!"

"He could have," Machiavelli said calmly. "My partner has said just how capable the boy can be. I'm suspecting he's going there right now, fully aware of the risks opposing his rescue plan."

"This is all your fault," Herman accused, his voice catching at the end. "If you had done your job the least bit right, none of this would be happening! Don't you _care_ at all? Don't you feel anything? There are countless lives—young, beautiful, bright lives in that warehouse. None of them have any idea about what's going to happen to them! And you're just going to let them burn out! Are you human or not?!"

Machiavelli shut his eyes and drew in a breath.

"I used to be," he murmured. "Not anymore."

"Edward's right. You're a no-good bastard."

"I would have stopped it, believe me," said Machiavelli. "If I had known—"

"That's right!" Oberth said. "You _hadn't_ known, which is why this is all your fault! Try telling this piece of failure to your boss, Mister. See how they take it!"

The Italian grimaced. _He's right. My Master will not be pleased with Dee's initiative. Even his Elders would berate him for doing something so reckless. They are ruthless and cruel, but they do not perform unnecessary actions._

Machiavelli started walking out the office.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?" Herman yelled at his back.

"To see if we can save Edward and the team you hold so dear to your heart. I know when something's gone too far, and now I'm willing to save them. But for that to happen, I need your cooperation."

"What do you want, then?" the scientist said, still reluctant to trust this stranger.

"I need you to tell me the different elements you hold in the factory—chemicals, metals, the like. I must know the building's _exact_ composition."

"For what? That sounds like a load of bull to me."

"That information is confidential unfortunately," answered Machiavelli without turning around. "However, it's not something you need to know. I may not be human anymore, but . . . I still understand the value of a life. Something as precious as that cannot be wasted. It would be rather sad, wouldn't it, if Edward spent so much effort saving them and then died in the process. Let's make sure he doesn't fail."

Herman eyed him strangely. "Who are you exactly?"

"Just an old soul who has lived far too long. Age gives you wisdom, but it also corrupts. Pray that we are not too late."

* * *

><p>He couldn't hear anything else, safe for his laboured breathing and the slapping of his feet against the pavement. The whole time, he felt like his heart was going to leap out of his chest.<p>

Not from the exhaustion, but from anxiety and the urge to get someplace in time before it was too late.

Although in his heart of hearts, Edward knew that he wasn't going to make it in time. Which was why helpless tears clung to the sides of his eyes like a lifeline.

Thank goodness it had begun to rain. Thank goodness no one he knew was around to see him like this. He didn't know what to do if he was seen so helpless and small like right now. And I don't mean the size-small.

I mean small. Insignificant. Useless.

The guards had nearly caught him back at the university. Edward didn't know if they were still pursuing him, but he couldn't exactly muster up the strength to turn around and confirm it.

Even if it was all for nothing, he still had to try. He wanted to save them.

The warehouse came into view. His vision was blurry—either from his tears or the rain.

Did it matter?

The police were no longer surrounding the grounds. There was not a soul in sight.

Edward pressed on, his feet splashing against puddles of water. About halfway there, he stopped.

"Ah, so you've made it," said John Dee. "Care to see the spectacle?"

Edward's chest was heaving. Not from exhaustion, but from anger.

"You . . . bastard, you . . . ! I'll kill—!"

"Oh dear." Dee inspected his fingernails. "Can't even finish a sentence, can you? Do you even understand anything, Elric? Those men have violated a rule of nature that should have never been trespassed upon."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"You can save them if you want. It wouldn't matter in the end. I'll just blow you up along with them."

Edward fisted his hands, doing his best to stop them from trembling. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Why am I doing this?" The Englishman raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious? There are men in this world, Elric, that do not care for others. Owen Tyler is a prime example. You think he is a kind, respectable man? That is heresy. He cared for no one but himself. And this is the punishment that has been brought upon him."

"But those people!" Edward choked out, pointing at the warehouse. He felt heavy on his feet, yet light-headed at the same time. "The scientists did nothing wrong!"

"And how would you know that? What if they've been keeping something from you this whole time, and you didn't know it?"

Edward growled and ran ahead. He didn't care about Dee. He was just wasting his time talking to the man, when he could've made better use saving his coworkers.

"I TOLD YOU!" Dee yelled towards him. "I could initiate the explosion any time I want!"

He was only a few yards away from the warehouse when he felt a violent tug on his collar. Edward flew backward and knocked his head on the pavement. Herman Oberth stood over him protectively, Machiavelli a few paces away.

"What are you doing here?" Edward hissed.

"Protecting you, idiot!" Herman barked at him. "If we hadn't intervened, you could have died!"

"I don't care!" Warm liquid slid down the sides of his face. "I don't care if it means I could save them!"

"That's why I'm here," said Machiavelli. "Doctor. Get Edward as far away from here as possible. I will attempt to dis—"

"Oh no you don't!" sang Dee's voice. "I knew you'd come eventually, Nico! Just thought you'd like to know that my transmutation is irreversible!"

Edward was so wrapped up in his emotions, he didn't even hear the Englishman's words.

"Dammit," Machiavelli growled. "Never mind; there's no time to save them. We have to get back befo—"

Dee smiled.

The warehouse erupted into liquid fire.

A deafening roar penetrated their ears, knocking them off their feet. A violent wind swept over their heads, showering them with debris from the warehouse. For a split second, the heat from the explosion wiped the rain from the atmosphere, suspending the droplets in midair.

As quick as it came, the explosion died into raging fire, and once again the rain proceeded to pound the earth with its fierce bombardment.

Edward, on his knees, stared at the shattered warehouse in disbelief.

There was . . . absolutely no way anyone could have survived that. Those men, the scientists . . . his _friends_. They were all gone.

And the worst part of it is—

Edward pounded the ground with a fist. "_I never got to say goodbye!_"

Herman was equally shocked. He staggered towards the warehouse, reaching his hand out. "Samuel . . . L-Lars . . . Ezekiel . . . Connor . . . A-Alexander . . . No, this can't be. This . . ."

Machiavelli whirled on Dee. "How could you?! You will be punished for this act, John. I will promise you that! You murdered innocent people! Your masters will never let you hear the end of it!"

"When have you ever cared?" Dee shot back. "I did what was necessary, in order to protect this world."

"You are a complete, fool, Dee. That's what you are!"

Edward drowned their voices out, curling in on himself to protect his current fragility.

_There's no way, dammit. It can't . . . Why did this have to happen?!_

"I couldn't . . ." he sobbed. "I couldn't protect them . . . Why? I didn't even get to say goodbye! I DIDN'T GET TO SAY GOODBYE!"

The last part he directed at the sky, cursing anyone that was the cause of his grief.

Sirens wailed again for the fourth time.

Edward didn't register anything at all. For the most part, he was lying on the ground, sobbing into the pavement and mercilessly berating himself for his own failings.

He briefly registered Machiavelli standing at the side, arguing with a bunch of officers and a triumphant Dee.

He didn't even have the energy to punch the Englishman in the face. He didn't even fight when an officer came over and handcuffed him.

"You will be pressed for charges in breaking-and-entering, escaping captivity and assaulting an officer. Please come quietly with us, Mr. Elric."

Edward didn't object. He was led away into a police car, and then taken to jail where he awaited his sentence.

But he didn't care. At that moment, he wished he could've died along with those men in the warehouse.

* * *

><p><strong>Three days later . . .<strong>

"I called your father," said Alphons. "He'll be down here in no time and we'll get you out."

"Don't bother," Edward mumbled through the bars. "I can't face the world . . . not after what happened."

"Edward, we'll fix this somehow," Alphons promised. "It is tragic, but you need to retain a low-profile from now on. The government knows we're both involved with the rocket team. We need to make sure we don't know a thing."

"But we don't know a thing."

"Even so. Dr. Oberth is trying to get Interpol off his back, but it's been hard. And then we have all those funerals to prepare for . . ."

"Then get going," Edward said, moving deeper into his cell. "It's not like I can go anywhere right now."

Alphons pursed his lips. "Ed. I promise you that we'll fix this."

Edward slid down against the wall and turned away. "Yeah. Right."

"I'll make sure of it."

"You keep saying that. But you didn't see them die, Alphons. You didn't see how that bastard Dee gloated in front of us, acting so _happy_ that the team died." Edward spat the words bitterly. "You weren't there to see how utterly useless I was. I promised them . . . I promised myself that I would get them out. But there was no use. They were dead the minute they became locked up in that room."

"But you figured it out."

"So _what_?!" Edward snapped. "Nothing came out of it in the end! I was there and yet—! You what what, I don't care anymore. Go away, Alphons."

"But—"

"Go."

"Edward, you can't keep shutting yourself up like th—"

"_LEAVE!_"

Alphons took an involuntary step back. Edward had never yelled at him like that before.

He whirled around and ran out of there. He didn't look back.

He hadn't imagined the incident would scar Edward this much. Was it really too late to save him from the darkness?

* * *

><p><strong>Aaaand Ed's bitterness is back. Oh boy.<br>**

**This story is like twice as long as the previous. There's this huge library right next to my school, and even though my school has it's proper library, I go to the public one because it has a lot more books. It's a two minute walk away, so I could go every lunch time. Now I have a library source to grab the second book of the series! I hate relying on Wikia.  
><strong>

**Oh, and, I know it has been a while, and I'm sorry. High school sucks.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>EditJuly 15, 2013: I haven't abandoned this story, guys! Next chapter is taking some time but I will most definitely get it done! My writing process contains writing the first draft and then submitting the good copy, and I do have other fics to commit to. Thank you for understanding! **


	21. XXI: From There To Here

**I know this is really late, and I'm sorry. I didn't know there were still some of you who wanted to read this story, or even bothered to check up on it, especially after an entire year of zero activity. But thanks to you guys, I've decided to reacquaint with both these fandoms. It wasn't easy, as I have other stories to get to, but I got off my ass and wrote this.**

**This was originally supposed to be one chapter, but I've broken it into two because the word count managed to reach above 12k, which is A LOT. I'll upload the next part when I am finished with it. **

**Thanks, and once again I apologize for so long a delay. I appreciate all your reads and reviews, and your time taken to do either or both. :)**

* * *

><p><strong>June 2nd | Present Day<strong>

Niccolo Machiavelli had been patiently awaiting his turn to bid for the entire night, his eyes dead set on the Japanese Kabuki masks displayed at the front of the room. After centuries of evading him, the masks had finally emerged on auction again. Machiavelli was determined to not lose to another party.

But then his phone rang.

Resisting the urge to curse, Niccolo drew out his cellphone. He'd specifically made it clear to everyone that he didn't want to be disturbed that night. Who, on the entire earth of this plane, had the nerve to interrupt him?

"What is it?" he said in his native language, Italian.

Before the person on the other end could get even one word out, Machiavelli had already guessed who it was. There weren't many people on this planet that dared test his temperament.

"_I need your help,_" came the accented reply of the same language. Dee sounded agitated and besides himself.

"You . . . need _my_ help. _You_." Niccolo had almost laughed out loud with disbelief. Instead, he stood from his seat and left the room, stepping out into the chilly night. He inhaled deeply, savouring the cold air in his lungs.

The fact that the Kabuki masks had once again eluded his possession made him want to literally curse Dee's existence, but he knew that the Englishman wouldn't call unless he absolutely_ had_ to. Dee was usually too prideful for the occasion. Machiavelli stowed his vengeful urge to the back of his mind and asked Dee to explain.

"_Flamel is back in Paris._"

That got his attention.

"When?" Machiavelli demanded.

"_Just now, I'd wager. He went through one of the leygates, but I'm not sure which. It's definitely linked to Paris, though. That much I know. Since you were stationed there, I decided to call you._"

"Is it just him?"

"_No. He has Scathach with him._"

Machiavelli grimaced. He'd never really got along with the Warrior. Every time they met, things tended to end violently.

"Why would the two of them escape to Paris?" Machiavelli said.

"_They have two humani children with them. Americans. Twins._"

Machiavelli leaned into the earpiece, trying to determine whether he heard right. "Come again? Did you say twins? As in, _the_ Twins?"

"_Gold and silver,_" the Englishman confirmed. "_You know what that means._"

"Have they been Awakened?"

"_The girl has. But you need to keep a careful eye on her. Flamel had taken them to the Witch of Endor. The girl knows Air Magic._"

Machiavelli bit his lip. That could definitely spell trouble. If these were truly the Twins of Legend—the _real_ Twins—then that meant—regardless of their prowess—they were dangerous. After centuries of searching for them, Flamel had finally found the true pair. Machiavelli had bet on at least another few centuries with no luck of their existence. It seemed as if his prayers had not been answered.

"Did you try and stop them?"

Dee scoffed. "_Obviously. And obviously that didn't work out. The Witch nearly killed me. She even broke the damned leygate so I couldn't pass through. It'll take me at least fifteen hours to reach Paris. That's why I contacted you first._"

"And what is it exactly you want me to do?" Machiavelli asked, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. To him, the idea of the Englishman asking for someone else's help was truly hilarious. The mere notion of Dee _failing _his task was strangely satisfying.

It was clear Dee had detected Machiavelli's scorn as his answer was bitter-sounding.

"_Capture the Twins, as alive as you possibly can. I've got personal business with Flamel, but it's not like our masters care if he's in one piece. As for the Warrior, kill her. I don't care how you do it—use the secret service if you have to. I'll meet you in Paris when I can._"

"Is there anything else I should know?"

There was a pause on the other end. Machiavelli waited, thinking that maybe the transatlantic connection had broken midway.

"_No,_" came Dee's reply. "_That's all_."

Dr. John Dee was a formidable liar, but Machiavelli was an even better one. He knew when someone was lying, and even though he couldn't see Dee's face, the Englishman's tone was all but enough.

"You're lying, John. What are you keeping from me?"

"_A surprise. Well, actually, that all depends on whether he becomes difficult or not. But I trust he isn't, as he's probably comatose already. I would know, since I'm the one who put him there._"

"Who? Who's comatose?"

"_An old friend. Trust me on this, Nico. You'll be thanking me._"

"Who is this person?" Machiavelli insisted. "It's useless keeping things from me, you know that. Tell me whether extracting Flamel and the Twins would be problematic." Niccolo directed his next set of words directly into the receiver: "Is this person_ dangerous_?"

"_Oh_." Dee chuckled. "_Very. Until we meet, Nico. Ta!_"

The connection disbanded. Machiavelli lowered the phone from his ear and mulled over Dee's words. He had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

><p>Scathach had been the first to go through the leygate. The scene of her grandmother's storage room in Ojai rippled, and Sophie and Josh Newman had come tumbling out of it afterwards. There was a short pause before the next set of gatecrashers came through.<p>

When Flamel arrived, dragging Elric after him, and when Scathach saw how grief-stricken Edward was, she knew something disagreeable had happened in Ojai. Zephaniah was an altogether unreasonable woman, but the Elder knew her dangers, and she must have had no choice but to send everyone over. Especially with a Dee swearing vengeance on the other side.

But Scatty knew that wasn't the blunt of Edward's frustration. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Edward and Dee knew each other—well, scratch _knew each other_; they may as well have been enemies. Edward had obviously wanted to resolve some unfinished business with the English doctor, and Zephaniah had undoubtedly said no.

"No!" Edward had screamed. "No, don't do this!"

Scathach had speculated on her grandmother doing some needless action to get them to safety. Judging by Edward's reaction, she'd been right. The storage room in Ojai had erupted into flames, consuming everything in sight, including the leygate on its side. Theirs had shattered immediately following, as the connection between leygates broke away.

Then Edward made the move of bringing his hands together. Scathach had only seen that action several times before, and she'd immediately guessed what his intention was. Flamel had grabbed his hands and had fervently told him to stop, because attempting to reconnect severed leygates would only end up taking what Edward clearly did not have.

The boy wasn't thinking straight. Scathach could see it in his eyes, and she could see it in the way his body shook as he sobbed. No child that young should have been allowed to seek death so thoughtlessly, or produce that many tears like he'd seen enough destruction and carnage to cripple even a god's emotional wellbeing.

But the simple act of it—Edward's anguish, although adverse, was the most humane, purest, and _sincerest_ of raw emotion that Scathach had seen in all 2000+ years of her long life. She knew plenty of humans, and she befriended a great many, but this boy here—his remorse was powerful enough to move even her, and she would never openly admit it to herself if this was anyone else.

She felt pity for him, and she knew how _he_ felt, as if he'd seen too much, experienced too much, and dealt with too much pain. Everyone had a boiling point, and their breaking point, and it seemed Edward had found his.

"Is he going to be all right?" Sophie asked with her voice lowered. She and Scatty stood afar from Edward, giving him a wide berth to cool down. Despite her low volume, it was clear Edward was in no state of awareness.

"Does he look okay?" said Josh, coming over. "I don't know what it is, but there had always been something about him—I can't put my finger on it . . ."

"He's never been all right," Nicholas answered for Sophie. "I doubt he's been from the start. Whatever that boy's history is, I'd imagine it wasn't all rainbows and butterflies."

Scatty's eyes shifted back to Edward, who was wordlessly kneeling in front of the broken leygate, clutching the glass shards with his one good hand. His grip was so tight—enough to further grind up the glass. Despite this, Edward's hand did not bleed. Scatty supposed it was the strength and durability of his gloves preventing injury.

His other arm hung limply at his side, probably the result of his encounter with Dee. Scathach hadn't been there to personally see the Englishman, but the man rarely went anywhere without fatally maiming someone. It seemed Edward had been this time's unlucky victim.

Things were quiet now—much too quiet. Edward's body slouched forward, broken and utterly defeated, like he was caving in from an unseen weight. His silence must have been induced by some form of shellshock, perhaps from the trauma he suffered under Dee's torture, and the fact that he used all his remaining strength to save everyone from the man. It was through sheer willpower that he'd managed to stay conscious this entire time; there was no telling how much blood he'd lost.

And it occurred to Scatty that maybe standing around wouldn't be a good idea, especially with Dee hot on their trail, and Edward, who desperately needed some medical attention.

"I don't want to spoil the mood," the Shadow said, "but Nicholas, we need to get out of here. Dee isn't stupid, and he's likely to have called back-up by now." She glanced at Edward. "And I'm afraid, for him, it's time we haven't got to lose."

"He doesn't look fit to move. Give him a few more minutes."

Scatty sighed, tapping her foot impatiently against the floor. "I'd rather we just carry him out. Hell, I'd even volunteer."

She wasn't purposely trying to be ungrateful—in fact, it was the opposite. Edward had a strange form of alchemy, one that Scatty couldn't recognize, but it went without saying that without the kid's abilities, none of them would be standing here alive. Edward saved them, and there was a debt to be paid.

"Who knew they had a spat," Scathach muttered, chuckling dryly. "It just seems so unlikely, you know."

"Who?" inquired Flamel.

"You know. Dee."

"Ah." Nicholas scratched at his chin. "Yes, how _did_ they come to know each other, I wonder . . . ?" His eyes landed on Edward. "No, perhaps we should save the questions for a later date. Right now is too wrong."

"Where are we, anyway?" Josh said, his eyes darting about. "How did we even get here?"

Scathach scanned her surroundings. The room was poorly lit, and from what she could see, there were shelves all around her, stocked with paper towels, cleaning detergent, paint, paintbrushes, a broom, and etc. It was a storage room, or a large closet.

"Paris," Nicholas answered. "The city of my birth. I'm not entirely sure where in Paris we are, but that mystery can easily be solved."

Travelling from Ojai to Paris in a single second seemed all but impossible. If this was two days ago, Josh would have denied the ability for an event like this to happen. But now that he knew the gods were real, and magic was real, he supposed portal-hopping was a normal, entirely probable idea.

Josh glanced briefly at his sister, who was exhibiting the most peculiar of behaviour: she had her ear pressed firmly to the wall, and her expression was thoughtful, as if she was listening for something on the other side of the bricks. For what, Josh didn't want to fathom. He moved on and stopped in front of the shattered leygate.

"So," he began, "this mirror thing—"

"Leygate," corrected Flamel.

"Yeah, leygate. So it teleported us from Ojai to Paris? Just like that?"

"Exactly like that."

"Not really," joined in a new voice, tired and hoarse.

All eyes switched on Edward, who was still crouched in front of the broken leygate. His long hair obscured his face, but Josh being close observed his weariness, and the fact that darkness clung to his eyes like evil shadows. After acting so distant and unresponsive, Edward's sudden participation alarmed everyone. The normal thing someone injured would have done was to pass out and say nothing. And here Edward had gone against all odds and once again proved his stubbornness.

"Well, it is a lot more complicated," Nicholas reasoned, eyeing Edward carefully. "But to put it simply, leygates are like portals. It's all made possible by a phenomenon called—"

"Ley lines," Edward finished.

"Yes, exactly," said Flamel slowly. "Edward, don't push yourself. Save your strength."

"Ley lines are like invisible bands of magic that circle around the globe, allowing for inter-dimensional travel between one place on Earth to another," Edward forced out, ignoring Flamel.

The Alchemyst stepped forward. "Edward, stop—"

He winced in pain before pushing on: "But you can't simply travel on a whim. Ley lines are something that neither humans nor gods can control. If two ley lines cross each other, a leygate is created. At least, according to my father. He has been wrong before."

Edward doubled over at the last second and coughed into the ground. His body shook as each cough wracked his insides, his right hand clutching his injured shoulder tightly—enough force to reopen the wound he'd so painstakingly stitched up with his alchemy. His face was the perfect picture of agony.

"Edward, what do you think you're doing?!" Flamel demanded. "Don't hurt yourself more. Once is enough!"

The alchemist then turned and shot Flamel with a soul-piercing glare.

"So you think that I was just going to sit here," he said, "and watch you pity me. After everything that happened, do you really _think_ that I need that. You actually think that I would willingly let Dee take his victory again, after all that he's done."

Flamel's words caught in his throat. "I . . . I didn't say that," he objected.

"So all that talk about me behind my back earlier—that was just for fun?"

Edward's face was gritty, worn and bloody, but that didn't stop his eyes from shining intensely. The spark in those golden orbs was no reminder of his physical condition.

"Just because I'm like this doesn't give you a reason to see me as incapable, or someone who needs help. You worry about yourselves, and I worry about me. We don't need to share sympathies. That's not why I'm here." Edward looked at Scatty. "Yes, I do know Dee. The last time I saw him was eighty-eight years ago. The wound he reopened earlier had been initially inflicted by a sword he impaled me with. I won't give him the satisfaction again. I am done mourning. Now, we need to move on."

"Hold on," said Josh. This was going _way_ too fast. "You were sort of half-dead. We don't just pick up from where we left off and leave. This is not how it works."

Edward glared at him. Tear tracks were still visible on his face. "So we just let him catch us, huh? After all I've done for you. After all the sacrifices I've made to keep all of you alive."

"N-no. That's not what I meant. Of course that's not what I meant."

"What other way is there?!" Edward almost shouted, and his voice cracked. "I . . ." He looked away and brought his hand to his face. "I'm done. I'm done with all of this. I don't know what Truth hoped to gain by sending me here, but I can't do this anymore."

Josh stared on sadly. Despite his courageous words, on the inside, Edward really was broken. He just didn't want to appear to be.

Maybe what Flamel said was true. Maybe Edward had already been corrupted by a traumatic event suffered in the past, and this time's encounter with Dee had just deepened that wound. Edward wasn't the type to break on a single occasion. It would take multiple tries to defeat him, countless catastrophes to level his resolve. Either he had a terrible life from day one, or he was just prone to bad luck. Josh couldn't help but feel sorry for him.

"Hey, guys," said Sophie from her place against the wall, her ear still pressed against it. "This is really interesting."

"Not now, Soph," Josh sighed.

"No, really," she insisted. "I can hear . . . music in the walls. Like church organs."

"Is that so?" said Flamel. "Perhaps what you're hearing is the remnants of songs recorded into the building, noises longed absorbed by the stone. But you're right. This is a church."

"Do you know which church?" asked Scatty.

"I can't be sure . . ."

Edward slowly gazed up, and a look of understanding flashed across his features. He gently brought his right hand to his left, connecting his inner Gate, and lay his palm down on the ground. An alchemic array glowed underneath him, lifting up stray dust, as well as his long-coat, and Edward had his eyes closed, as if he was seeing more with his mind rather than his physical sense. The other occupants in the room watched on with an unspoken awe.

"Late nineteenth century, possibly early twentieth," Edward reported shortly, his eyes darting about underneath his eyelids. The array slowly faded as he completed his diagnostic. He opened his eyes and scrutinized the floor, as if he could see right through the stone. "But . . ." he continued doubtfully, ". . . there's a larger structure under us. Much older. Ruins."

"Are you sure you should be doing more alchemy?" said Flamel worriedly. "We don't want to reverse your recovery."

"What recovery?" asked Edward, choking out a laugh. "I'm never going to recover from this." He shifted his weight and groaned as pain shot up his left side. "Besides, I've got this church's entire floor plan in my head. I can't afford to pass out now, not if you people want a way out."

Flamel was caught between agreeing with him and knocking him out. He decided to choose the former. Knocking Edward out was going to prove difficult, and he didn't want to injure the teenager further.

"By the way, we're in _Sacré-Coeur_," said Edward.

"What?" Flamel breathed. "Are you sure?"

"I've been to France before. Of course I'm sure."

"Then I don't think we need your floor-plan, after all. I am very familiar with this church, and if I'm right, then our ticket out of here is not too far off. There's even a safehouse nearby."

"Is there really such a thing?" asked Sophie doubtfully. So far, wherever they'd gone, they had been chased to the ends of the earth by Dee and his allies, and Sophie didn't think the idea of a safehouse was going to last.

"Anywhere is good right now," Edward said wearily, looking very much like he hadn't slept a day in his life. "Let's just get a bloody move-on."

He tried to stand, using the wall beside him as leverage. His left arm dangled loosely at his side, and his legs were shaking so badly it was a wonder as to how they hadn't given in yet.

Josh rushed in first and scooped Edward up by the arm, making sure to carefully avoid the blond's left side while he supported him. Edward's head started to loll to the side, but he managed to snap himself out of it before he could fall unconscious.

"I know you don't want us helping you," said Josh, "but you look like you could use it. It's hardly a time to play hero, right?"

Edward scoffed, turning his head away from the teen. "You don't understand."

"Understand what? I understand plenty, thank you."

"Oh, so you know the feeling of saving two entirely separate worlds and losing everything on both ends. You can relate to the fact that I should have died a long time ago, but my stupid little brother decided to save the day and fucking _sacrifice_ himself in order to bring me back to life. Oh, yeah, and I have a mutant flying snake for a half-brother. Well, I used to. He's dead now. Speaking of dead, my dad's dead, my mother's dead, and who knows, my brother is dead, too. Your sympathy is appreciated."

Josh stared at him in disbelief.

"What?" he said. "You're not . . . serious."

Edward sighed. "No. Of course I'm not. I just happened to find my way to the future, with no cause or reason for it."

Edward could be bleeding to death right now, or missing all his limbs, but there was one thing Josh couldn't get rid of no matter the level of injury, and that was Edward's sass. It didn't matter if he was half-dead—no—he was still as smart-mouthed as before his accident.

"In any case, we need to move," Flamel said. "The sooner we get you medical attention the better. If you really don't like hospitals, then getting to the safehouse is our top priority. Someone there should be well-versed in healing magic."

"Oh, great. More magicians," Edward muttered.

"You of all people should be looking forward to this, Elric."

"Me? Why me?"

Flamel smiled knowingly. "You'll see when we get there."

"_If_ we get there," Scatty corrected. "My reasoning about Dee bringing back-up still stands. We best hurry."

The Alchemyst moved toward the closet door.

"Maybe we should, you know, think this through," interrupted Josh, grunting under the weight of his charge. For a short guy, Edward was a lot heavier than he looked.

"What do you mean?" Flamel had his hand on the closet's door knob and was twisting it open. "Nothing's going to happen."

"What if there's an—"

A high alarm pierced the air, the sound bouncing off the building walls. From outside, red emergency lights flashed.

"—alarm," Josh finished, disgruntled. "Great."

"Didn't you always tell me to think and judge before acting?" Scatty said.

"It's the age," the Alchemyst stated, and he pelted the door wide open, sticking his head out. "It's clear outside. We should get to the exit while we still can. Come on!"

Flamel led the group down a corridor, Scatty close behind, followed by Sophie, and then Josh, who was stuck with half-carrying, half-dragging Edward along with him.

They stopped at a pair of wooden doors, to which Flamel pulled open. A second set of alarms blared, but no one paid it any heed. Every single door in this building must have been wired with its own alarm.

Nicholas took a left into a room filled with the smell of incense and wax. Ancient banks of candles lined the walls along with modern day electrical lighting. Flamel spotted the _Exit_ sign at the end of the hall.

"No," Edward tried to say. "Don't open that—"

Too late. Flamel was already at the doors. The Alchemyst gave a mighty tug, but the doors were bolted shut. Clearly the security system didn't care whether the threshold had been penetrated—as long there was someone trying to get in or out—because a third alarm blared.

"I don't understand," said Nicholas, ignoring the noise around him. "The church should be open."

"Are you sure we're in Paris, France?" Sophie shouted. "I mean, if Ojai is nine hours ahead of Paris, it should be 4 o'clock in the morning right now. It'd make sense that no one's here."

"You know what that means!" Scatty sang in a sickly sweet voice. Her mood abruptly soured. "The police are coming."

"I could blast the doors apart," Sophie offered. Internally she was hoping she didn't have to. After demonstrating her newly attained powers in Ojai, she'd been too exhausted to try again.

Flamel seemed to have read her mind. "No, don't. I will not have a national monument maimed in my presence. There has to be another way."

Josh glanced behind him and noted the intricate mosaics decorating the dome above the altar, and how huge columns of pure stone were made to erect the high ceiling above their heads. And although the structure was grand and massive, there lay a hidden fragility to the foundation, as if one little push of a wall could cause the entire church to collapse. Blasting the doors apart was out of the question.

"What other way is there?" he asked in a soft voice. The alarms drowned out his voice, but he knew everyone in the room was thinking the same thing.

* * *

><p>Machiavelli had quickly called for his limousine, and while he waited, he carefully molded a plan together in his head—a plan that would keep Flamel and his party busy while he rounded his police force to capture them.<p>

When his ride arrived Niccolo wasted not a moment's hesitation and accessed the locked files on the computer, the ones he used for archiving his many spells.

Some traditionalists tended to keep their secrets in scrolls, but Machiavelli favoured the more modern methods, choosing instead to password-crypt his files and set up a virus around them as protection.

The Italian pulled up a file containing the mapping of the Earth's ley lines. He traced his finger along one of them, beginning from Ojai and stopping in Paris. There were at the most two possibilities. _Notre Dame_ or the _Sacré-Coeur_ basilica?

Violent alarms tore through the night, alerting Machiavelli of some unwanted intruders in the distance. He rolled down his window and leaned towards the outside, catching sight of the grand _Sacré-Coeur. _The usual white light illuminating the exterior was now an angry red.

The night air was cool, but the smile Machiavelli presented was downright cold.

He had a very good idea as to who triggered the alarms, and that meant it was time he put his plan into motion.

* * *

><p>"Okay, those are <em>definitely<em> police sirens," Josh said, his panic growing. "What do we do?"

"Twelve police cars," Sophie reported, her head tilted to the side. "Think we can take them?"

"Not in this state, we can't," Flamel said. "You're exhausted, Sophie, Edward's injured, Josh is lugging him around, and I doubt Scatty and I, with our forces combined, can take them. Not unless we aim to kill."

Sophie dipped her head, running over her options. "Yeah, you're right. It's out of the question."

"How can you tell how many police cars there are?" Josh asked.

"I can place where each car is. Enhanced hearing is handy, although I doubt we can do much right now."

Josh could never cease to be amazed at the new powers Sophie had attained. It seemed like a dream—one he couldn't be a part of.

"I'd rather not be arrested again, thanks," Edward said. His body language was flimsy and weak, but the sharp intelligence of his eyes told a different story. "Neither of us have passports, and if France has remembered my criminal record after eighty-eight years, I would have a lot of explaining to do, and we don't have the time. We need to find another exit."

Flamel was about to interrogate Edward on his 'criminal record', when the sharp scent of familiarity wafted up his nose. It was thick and repugnant, perhaps even more so than Dee's sulphuric scent. He saw that Sophie had the same reaction. She had her nose drawn up in discomfort.

"What _is_ that?" she asked. "Smells like . . ."

"Trouble," said Scatty, drawing her nunchaku. "Big trouble."

Josh recognized the smell. It was often associated with the zoo, and he knew he didn't like it.

"Snake," his sister concluded.

Josh had been dreading that answer.

"Snake?" he repeated, unable to keep the fear from his voice. He was _terrified_ of snakes. People said it was irrational, but it didn't feel irrational to Josh. Scatty said it was trouble. He'd been right to fear snakes.

"It's not like a bodily snake that's with us," Sophie tried to explain, although she was more confused than certain. "There's only one. And I don't hear them. It's just the smell."

"It's definitely a snake that you sense," Scathach hissed. "One that walks on two legs. What you're smelling, Sophie, is the odor of Niccolo Machiavelli."

From his place beside Josh, Edward drew in a sharp intake of breath, barely masking his surprise—and something else: horror? Outrage?

However, his companions took his reaction as a display of fear.

"Machiavelli's older than Dee, and he has had a hand in European politics for centuries," Flamel said. "You'd best tread wearily around him, more so than Dee. At least you can predict Dee coming. Machiavelli is more secretive in his operations."

"So what? Everyone has a scent?" asked Josh. He still hadn't mastered his fear yet.

"Nicholas smells of mint," Scatty explained. "Dear old Dr. John Dee smells of rotten eggs, or sulfur, to be more exact, and Machiavelli smells like snakes. It fits him actually. He's much more cunning and sneaky than Dee and ten times as dangerous."

"They're acquaintances, then. He's Dee's back-up."

Edward scoffed, and then cringed. The action had shot a painful jolt through his lungs.

"Heh . . . hardly. They merely work for the same company. Dee wouldn't call for help unless he absolutely _had_ to, especially from someone like Machiavelli."

Nicholas fixed his eyes on Edward carefully, his suspicions rising. "How would you know that?"

"Call it an educated guess."

Flamel was going to further question the extent of Edward's knowledge, when Sophie interrupted his thoughts.

"The smell's getting closer," she said. Josh watched as her silver aura crackled around her, her blue eyes turning into shining silver disks. He resisted the urge to flinch back. She'd done that before, and it scared him.

"Machiavelli's working magic again," said Scatty, wary eyes flickering around the room. "This is not good. _So _not good."

Her statement was immediately followed by a sickening squelch originating from the candles. Everyone flipped around to regard the source of the noise, their instincts on high alert. The melted wax began to converge and morph, coming together to form a distinct shape of a man.

But the creature that emerged from candles was anything but. There were no distinct features on its poorly constructed head. Two large trunk-like appendages sprouted from either side and the creature stumbled to its feet, of which were still half-formed.

It was the most grotesque _thing_ Josh had ever lay eyes on, and it was far more terrifying than any snake he'd encountered. When it walked, it was like watching a zombie steadily approach you, accept this wax monster would do far more grizzly things to you than just eat your brains out.

"Sophie, back me up!" Flamel commanded. "I'm going to try to pick the door lock, but I need some time."

"Oh, God," said Sophie. "I know what that is." Her eyes widened in horror. "It's a wax Golem."

She flung her hands out and blasted a bout of cold air at the Golem, but that elicited no type of injury or reaction from the creature. The Golem tripped closer towards them; Sophie was out of ideas.

Seemingly coming to her rescue, Scatty flew forward with her swords raised, and slashed at the Golem. However, her attack did not have the desired affect. Her swords remained embedded in the creature's body, the wax trapping her swords like a fly in amber. The Golem raised its bulbous fist and Scathach had to let go of her swords in order to avoid the blow.

"Josh, listen to me," said Edward. "I need you to— Wait! What are you doing?"

Josh dropped him and dashed to the side, leaving Edward on the ground as a crumpled mess. To make matters worse, he'd fallen on his left shoulder, and the pain he'd experienced at that point was blindingly hot. His surroundings darkened, threatening to throw him into unconsciousness. Edward rolled around and forced himself to watch his companions kill themselves trying to protect Flamel from the Golem.

He needed to get on his feet, dammit. There was only _one _way to stop that Golem, and slashing at it and battering it was only wasting time.

Meanwhile, Josh had quickly grabbed a chair from nearby and flung it at the Golem. Just like Scatty's swords, the chair stuck fast in the Golem's body. The wax monster was like a malformed mutant of sharp weaponry, candles, and ancient furniture. Josh ducked around the Golem and grabbed another chair, this time aiming for the creature's head.

The chair he was holding onto collided with the one he had before, and the impact shattered the two chairs to bits. Splinters stuck out from the Golem like porcupine quills. Edward had to resist the urge to face palm, because he knew the effort of bringing his hand to his face would kill him, if the Golem didn't get to that first.

Sophie was desperately trying to recall the Witch's memories. She knew Dora had encountered Golems before, but she couldn't find the memory that informed her of _how_ to kill them. There was absolutely no way any of her magic that she'd done back in Ojai could save them now. It was too useless.

"HURRY UP, NICHOLAS!" Scatty screamed. She was cut short as her nunchaku dug deep into the Golem, but too deep for her to get it out. The creature gave one big jerk and sent her flying across the room.

The Golem turned on Josh. It grabbed the boy by the shoulder and squeezed hard. The wax began to coil around Josh's neck, constricting his chest and allowing little oxygen into his lungs. Josh watched as black dots danced around his vision.

From somewhere to his right, he heard his sister scream his name, but all he could hear was garbled noise. The only thing he could see in front of him was the Golem, and he vaguely wondered if this ugly monstrosity was to be the last thing he'd ever see before he died.

And then a fuzz of gold came into view. Two pairs of illuminating gold disks.

Edward Elric had somehow gotten to his feet and cornered the Golem while it'd been occupied with Josh. With the sheer amount of strength Edward didn't know he had, he brought his hands together in a resounding clap.

Lightning flashed.

Wind howled.

All light in the room blew out.

Edward took a step forward and slammed his good hand into the creature's back. He'd never attempted a transmutation of this scale with only one hand, but he didn't care what happened to him then. All he knew was: this abomination had to go.

Deconstruction started from where his hand contacted the Golem. The reaction turned the creature into black flecks that shot away from Edward's hand like confetti. The only thing that was left of the Golem were two pairs of stocky feet, which completely dissolved into liquid wax after its body had been obliterated.

Edward coughed and doubled over, his knee striking the hard ground beneath him. The pain in his knee then was nothing compared to the sharp digging of daggers in his head, a pounding worse than a thousand drums.

Something didn't feel right in his throat. His lungs felt like they were on fire. Edward tried to hack up whatever it was that was in there, but he only vomited a fountain of blood. His word tilted and spun.

Already he had no strength left, and his most recent transmutation—as stupid as it was—robbed him of what vitality he had remaining. It was a plan constructed on the spot, with zero time for preparation before its execution. He hadn't even been sure whether it would work or not, just that it was likely and he had to try it.

Because of the transmutation, the flow of his energy, the very thing that channelled through his inner Gate, had distorted the pathway within him, injuring his body on a subatomic level that even he, a masterful alchemist, couldn't entirely comprehend. Add that to the list of every injury he currently suffered from, and Edward vaguely wondered why he hadn't died yet.

_Because Truth still needs you for His grandmaster plan. You can't die yet, stupid. He's going to keep you alive at all costs and there's nothing you can do about it._

He was so out of it, he didn't even notice Scatty's presence nearing him, even as she lifted him to his feet.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" she said. "You could have died after that last one!"

"You're right," said Edward weakly. "If I didn't save you, we would all be dead anyway." His speech elicited another bone-jarring coughing fit.

"Stop that!"

He looked up, barely mouthing, "What?"

"Stop trying to save us!" Scatty said vehemently. "You can't save everyone, Edward! Think about yourself for a change!"

Edward was too exhausted to argue further. His head drooped repeatedly, but he still stubbornly refused to black out. Scathach growled under her breath, resisting the urge to knock him out herself. She would have, if he wasn't hurt already.

"Flamel!" she yelled. "Are you done yet?"

At the doors, Nicholas' face lit up as he heard a faint _click_. "Yes!" he said. "Yes, let's get going!"

The doors swung open and cold air rushed in. Nicholas was first to step outside, but he looked over his shoulder and waited for his companions to catch up.

Sophie was kneeling beside her brother, close to where the wax Golem had been, and she was carefully inspecting any injuries Josh may have suffered. She had him seated against a stone column.

"I thought that Golem almost had you," she said. "Don't you ever do that again, Josh! You're helpless against that sort of thing, you know that."

Josh was tired of Sophie constantly babying him and fussing over his wellbeing. One of the reasons why he wanted to be Awakened so badly was to show Sophie that she didn't need to watch over him anymore. He wanted to fight and protect _her_ instead. Despite her newfound abilities, Sophie was just as fragile, if not more. One little push too far and she could lose herself in her powers. Josh didn't want to lose his sister—not like this.

His heart was caught at a standstill. On one hand, what Dee said to him back in Ojai was a little more than tempting. He _wanted _someone to teach him magic. Dee, despite what he did, was a powerful man. If they hadn't been interrupted back at the park in Ojai, Josh would have said yes. He would have gone with Dee.

But what Edward had claimed was also true to Josh. He didn't want to let Ed down, especially when he'd recently proved himself capable despite not having any magical powers. It worked out okay so far.

"And what?" Josh argued. "_You're_ not? You almost died too, Soph! Just because you got these new powers doesn't mean you're invincible. I was just trying to help. Strength doesn't come from any magical abilities."

"But from the spur of the moment?" Sophie finished. "That's reckless thinking. Where did you learn that from? A movie you've watched?"

"No." Josh tilted his head in the direction of Scatty and Edward. "That half-dead guy over there. The one who's _still alive_ because he believes in 'the spur of the moment'."

Sophie pursed her lips, wondering if stretching on the banter would help any of them in the long run. Deeming it no, she patted her twin on the shoulder and apologized for acting so rash. Josh made some imprudent decisions sometimes, but his heart was in the right place.

"I was worried, that's all," she said.

Josh's features softened. "Yeah," he said. "I know."

"You sure you're okay?"

"'M fine. The only thing I'm worried about is getting out of here without any trouble. For some reason, I have a feeling it's not going to be the case."

"Well, you can help by taking him," said Scathach from out of nowhere, dragging Edward along with her.

She dumped the blond into the siblings' care and ran back to the other side of the room to retrieve her weapons. When the Golem had flung her, enough of her weight had dislodged her weapons from the creature's waxy body, but as her hands let go, the weapons flew off in a totally different direction. Scatty wondered if she should attach a permanent chain around her weapons to her body. It didn't seem like a bad idea.

"Come you, you guys," she said to the twins, ushering them towards the door. "Out, out. Hurry up!"

Both Sophie and Josh struggled under the weight of Edward; it very much felt like they were lugging a sack of potatoes around, except Edward was much more fragile. Neither of the twins wanted to drop him in fear of breaking his body further, but they managed to get him out safely.

"Put me down," he muttered. "You don't need to freaking carry me."

"Can you walk?" Sophie asked.

"I can _stand_." Edward scowled. "But if it makes you feel better, you can help me walk. _One_ of you," he clarified, as both Sophie and Josh stepped forward to take him.

"You take him," said Sophie. "We may need my powers again, so . . ."

"Yeah, yeah," Josh responded, and he looped Ed's arm around his neck. "How's this?"

"Better than dropping me on the ground and leaving me to die," Edward said.

"Leaving you to—what . . . ? Oh." Josh's face reddened as he remembered dumping Edward on the ground to fight the Golem. "Sorry."

Nearby, Scathach approached Flamel, who was gazing out into the city of Paris with a thoughtful expression, his hands clasped behind his back.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Sophie was right about twelve police cruisers," he said. "They're approaching quickly. Machiavelli has definitely caught scent of us. The smell earlier wasn't a ruse. We best prepare ourselves for whatever he has planned."

"He's not Dee. He'll try to talk it out before making someone else do the dirty work for him. He won't fight us."

"Maybe not, but we still need to be wary. Who knows what he has in store."

Outside the basilica, a hundred steps led down the hill, and a view of the entire city stretched before them. The church's main courtyard was empty, but it was only a matter of time until the police arrived. Instead of despairing, Flamel appeared content to just continue watching the city.

"Home," he sighed. "It's been too long."

"There's one thing I don't get," said Scatty. "Was that Golem meant to be a challenge? Machiavelli must have known it couldn't possibly kill us, at least not so easily."

"It's not a Golem. It's a tulpa. They're far more powerful and advanced than a Golem."

"But even still. We would have gotten out of there in no time at all."

"That's true, but I think the tulpa was meant to be a distraction, and it worked. He probably didn't anticipate Elric. The boy bought us a lot of time. If it was just us, I'd imagine as soon as we step out of the church, we'd be greeted by Niccolo and his police force," said Nicholas. "That's what he wanted this entire time, for us to be occupied while he took his time getting here."

He risked a glance at the blond, who was slumped against Josh in a state of semi-consciousness.

"He's been a valuable asset to us so far. If the Dark Elders get their hands on him—"

"You can't possibly think of using him in our war," said Scathach, barely containing her incredulity. "Look at him! He's—" She deflated, face saddening. "Look at him. Does he look like a soldier?"

"He has the eyes of one." _Young he may be, but those eyes of his are much more haunted than the rest of his features. Although his posture is proud and tall, there is much sadness within him._

Scatty shook her head. "No, Nicholas. He just looks like a lost boy to me, desperately searching for something. We can't use him in our fight. He's not like Sophie or Josh who have no choice but to be a part in this war because they were _born _involved. Edward's different. He has choices."

"Whether he likes it or not, he's already heavily involved with us. It's too late to pull out."

"Then why are we waiting here?" said Scatty. "Why are we just standing around, wasting the precious time Edward managed to buy for us? He nearly died doing it!"

"Don't you think I understand that?!" Flamel snapped. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling. "We have no choice but to wait here for Machiavelli to arrive. If we leave now, he's going to wonder how we've escaped. He knows our abilities; he knows how long it will take us to defeat that Golem. He's going to assume we have someone else with us, someone more powerful. He's going to want to _search_. We cannot compromise Edward now. It's too dangerous."

"Dee would have informed him already."

"No." Flamel's eyes were hard with certainty. "No, he wouldn't. At least not outright. If we wait here and hide Edward's presence from him, we can avoid such suspicion, from him and his Elders."

"But is that such a good idea, Nicholas," Scatty pressed. "He's not going to agree to this."

"The boy has no aura. He should be relatively easy to conceal. Just wait him by the statues near the entrance. We can stand in front of him. The darkness should hide most of what we can't. As long as he keeps his eyes closed."

Edward's eyes had a strange luminous affect to them. They reflected any light that came their way, which made them seem as if they gave off light of their own. Flamel first thought it disturbing, but something at the back of us head told him otherwise. He didn't know what it was—it must have been something he read in a book ages ago.

Flamel turned and locked eyes with Sophie. "Did you catch all that?"

Sophie gave one slow nod.

"Most of the time, eavesdropping is rude, but I'll let it slide this time. Make sure Edward is comfortable. The police are here."

* * *

><p><strong>So I don't know if any of you have noticed, but there are certain inconsistencies with this fic, and some of you have actually pointed this out to me in the past, be it recently or distantly. <strong>

**Firstly, the rating of this fic is officially Rated T. The book series of the Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel itself has barely any strong language, but since we have Edward in this story, language may go up. If you don't like the amount of colourful profanity we have going on here, take it up with him, not me.**

**Also, we are officially finished with the first book, and please don't expect me to go _exactly_ along with the book series. There is something called an AU, and it exists only slightly, but it's there. There will be certain deviations, and if any of you are wondering, I did _not_ have the first book as a reference when I was writing this fic. But now I do. Excuse all the stupid mistakes I've made in the past chapters. That was all based on little memory I have of the first book.**

**Lastly, this fic is about two years old now, so I must thank all of you awesome readers for sticking with me. Some have moved on, which is fine with me; there are plenty other fish in the sea, right? But if you're still here by some miracle, THANK YOU. I've been a pretty sucky author lately, and I apologize profusely.**

**Now, if all is well, I'm signing out. _Adieu~_**


	22. XXII: We Meet Again, Old Friend?

From the bottom of the steps, the first police car pulled in, and then another, and another.

Pretty soon, the French police had the entire building surrounded, but none of the officials made the move to climb the stairs. They appeared like they were waiting for something. Or someone.

Sophie stepped up beside her brother and the others after setting Edward down against the statues. She'd told him to keep his eyes shut, much to his dismay. Eventually he complied and kept quiet, although Sophie could tell he was irked about sitting there and doing absolutely nothing to stop Dee's back-up from cornering them.

"Is that . . . ?" Sophie began as the door of the force's sole limousine opened.

A thin, white-haired man climbed out of his vehicle and began ascending the steps. He was elegantly dressed and his movements were smooth and steady, like he had all the time in the world. When he caught sight of them, he stopped and leaned against a low railing, sending a mock salute towards Flamel.

"I'm guessing that's Niccolo Machiavelli," said Josh, feeling like he was sinking into concrete.

"Yes," Nicholas replied grimly. "The most dangerous man in Europe, and he certainly makes a good name of it, too."

"Welcome back to Paris, Alchemyst. It's been too long."

Both Sophie and Josh jumped, their heads swivelling across their shoulders to meet the origin of the voice. Machiavelli hadn't spoken aloud; rather, he used a magical spell to project his voice through the statues stationed on either side of the door behind them.

"It's a parlour trick," said Scathach. "Don't be alarmed, guys."

"_Psst_."

From out of the corner of Sophie's eyes, she saw Edward discreetly gesture to himself. She quickly glanced at Machiavelli to see if he noticed the fifth member of their party. It looked like he hadn't.

"_Psst_!" Edward hissed.

Sophie looked back at him, turning her head just an inch to the side. "_What_?"

"_Let me help_," he mouthed.

"_No,_" she mouthed back, barely moving her lips.

"_I can help_," he tried again.

"_Not this time_."

Edward slouched and she could see him cursing under his breath. Why did he have to be so insistent? Sophie didn't understand how he couldn't just let them handle the enemy for a change. She turned back to Machiavelli and Flamel's exchange.

"I don't suppose you'll let us go," Nicholas was saying. He tried to keep his tone light, but underlying his façade was the desperation to get Edward the help he needed. If they didn't ditch Machiavelli soon, the boy could die.

"I'm afraid I can't do that," said Machiavelli. "You know the rules."

Nicholas had dreaded those words, though it didn't surprise him in the least. All he had to do was keep Machiavelli distracted while he channelled some orders to Sophie. His hands still clasped behind his back, he started tapping rhythms into his palm. To a normal person, that must have been normal behaviour, but Scatty knew better. She drew the twins aside to the back, but not too much so they still covered Edward to a degree. She then told Sophie what Flamel wanted.

"So I see in this century you prefer the French," Nicholas continued. "I cannot say I'm pleased to see you, _Signor Machiavelli_. Or is it _monsieur_?"

"Paris is my favourite city in Europe," Machiavelli said. "Aside from Florence, of course. No city will ever beat the city of my birth."

"A shame you picked my birthplace as your favourite," said Flamel with some visible disdain.

Down below, Machiavelli smiled, picking up on the Alchemyst's mood.

"There's no need for any jealousy or competition between us, Flamel. You know what I came here for."

"I suspect Dee has filled you in."

"Just enough. He's also mentioned that you'll be bringing a special guest."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Well, I have the Twins, if that's what you mean. And you've met Scathach before."

"I _know_ they are the Twins—I'm not a fool, Alchemyst," said Machiavelli, his voice dropping to a condescending hiss.

"And what? There's no one else here with us. Haven't you considered that maybe Dee is lying to you?"

"I would expect that of him, but not this time. He says this guest is dangerous. You understand why I must be vigilant."

"You're wasting your efforts. It's just us four. The Witch of Endor was supposed to come with us, but someone had to keep Dee busy. She volunteered to stay behind and distract him."

Machiavelli narrowed his eyes. Something about that claim . . . didn't sit right with him.

"You're lying," he said. "When Dee called me—"

"Just how much _did_ he tell you?" Flamel interrupted. "You must have heard wrong. The transatlantic connection is known for its terrible quality and random bursts of static. There's no possible way he could've meant _anyone_ else. Well, at least anyone we know."

Machiavelli, in his state of doubt, released some vital information that Dee had disclosed.

"He said I would see an old friend." He looked up at Flamel as if the Alchemyst could explain to him what the English doctor meant.

Flamel was just as confused. "What?" he said. "An old friend?"

"Do you know something, Alchemyst? Spit it out!"

"I don't know how that's possible. I—" Flamel risked a glance behind him, and he immediately regretted doing so. "No," he said, quickly turning back to Machiavelli, hoping that the other immortal thought his behaviour as a sign of bewilderment. "I am absolutely _sure_ there is no one else here with us. Do _you_ detect anyone here, Niccolo?"

Machiavelli frowned in concentration.

"No," he said. "I don't."

"You see? It's us, you, and your secret service."

During their conversation, Sophie had effectively started summoning forth the _brouillard_ Flamel requested—or fog, in French. A faint mist swept up the stairs and it was steadily becoming thicker. Machiavelli hadn't noticed because the sudden appearance of fog at night was common. It wasn't thick enough for him to think anything strange of it.

"No matter," said the Italian finally. "I have this entire area surrounded, Flamel. It's your choice of what to make of it. You can come quietly, or . . . Actually, you have no choice. You can come, or I make you. What's it going to be?"

Honestly, he just needed to end this exchange quick. Firstly, summoning that tulpa had drained a lot out of him. It was meant to be a good distraction, and it had worked, but if things did amount to a fight, Machiavelli didn't think he would have enough juice to take down Flamel and the Shadow, _and_ capture the Twins.

Of course he'd called more gendarmes for back-up, but there was a ninety-percent chance that a potential scuffle would be of the magical variety. There was no way Machiavelli was going to risk having to brainwash all these men later. It was far too exhausting. It was better if they didn't ever see magic at work.

The plan was simple—so simple that even an ape could understand.

He would capture Flamel and the Twins, and leave the Warrior for dead. Then the news of thieves breaking into the _Sacré-Coeur_ would be leaked to the press, as well as the news of their capture. Later the thieves would be reported to have escaped from the police. No one would question Machiavelli, and he could do what he wanted with his prisoners. It was foolproof.

Machiavelli often prided himself in containing his emotions, but just this once he let excitement flood his insides. It was good to succeed in what Dee had failed.

"You've escaped again and again," he said. "But not this time. I have you, Nicholas Flamel."

"You know, that's funny," Nicholas continued in his nonchalant demeanour. "Those are the exact words you said when you broke into my tomb."

Machiavelli's confidence faltered. "How do you know that?" he demanded.

"Perenelle and I, we were standing next to you—so close that we could simply reach out and tap you on the shoulder. I'd expected someone to come along and see if I'd really died, but I was surprised to find you. Were you happy with your find?"

_Happy_, was a nice way to put it. Machiavelli, on that night three hundred years ago, had uncovered the Flamels' tombs and found only rocks in their coffins. No bodies. And no Book of Abraham the Mage. He wasn't happy, but he wasn't surprised either. The Flamels would find a way to elude the Elders, one way or another.

Machiavelli pushed off of the railing he was leaning on and started walking up the steps. The fog around him seemed borderline unnatural, but he paid it no mind. He was too occupied with setting the record straight with Nicholas.

"You'd always thought I was a better person than I was," said Niccolo. "You thought I could change."

"That's true," Flamel said. "I believe there's good in everyone. Even you. Even Dee. Although, I'm saddened to say that he's long past his expiry date. I doubt he _can_ change anymore. But you . . . No. You've still got time."

"You're wrong. I don't, not anymore. If you surrender now, no harm will come to you or the Twins. I promise."

"People say that, but they always lie. You are no exception, Niccolo."

Machiavelli clenched his jaw. "Would you rather it is Dee who takes you in, or me? He has far less patience than I do!"

"I don't doubt that, but there is always another option."

"I don't see any chance of you escaping here. Surrender now, Flamel. Do not test me."

Flamel clenched his hands. Sophie's fog distribution was slow going, as it was clear she was not used to conjuring the right memories into creating it. He didn't see much option but to intercept Machiavelli himself and stop him in his tracks. However, using more magic would further age him, and it was time he couldn't afford to lose.

What could he do? One false move and Machiavelli could blast him off his feet. He needed another distraction—quick. Talking things out was a dangerous path to tread on, and it was getting him nowhere.

Nicholas' eyes landed on Edward, who was looking at him in a beseeching manner. There was no doubt the boy wanted desperately to help, to do _something_, as opposed to lying there on the ground in the shadows. But what could Edward do against Machiavelli in his state?

_"He's also mentioned that you'll be bringing a special guest."_

_"He said it was an old friend."_

_Old friend . . ._

There was absolutely no way that Edward Elric was that old friend. There was no . . .

But it was possible that if Edward knew Dee, he knew Machiavelli. It wasn't as far a stretch compared to their chances of escape now.

And then, suddenly, Flamel realized from back in that church, when they were picking out Machiavelli's scent, it wasn't that Edward was _scared_ of him.

No, it wasn't fear. It was _recognition_.

It was a chance he had to take. It didn't matter if Edward's existence was blown. Dee would inform the Dark Elders whether or not Machiavelli wanted to do it. And if Machiavelli was somehow on good terms with Edward—though it was nigh unlikely—their chances of survival could double. Truth would have gotten out sooner or later.

Flamel twisted around halfway and regarded Edward openly.

"You know Dee, and you know Machiavelli, but you've never heard of _me_?" he said, smiling just a bit.

Edward pushed himself to his feet, limped past Flamel, and leaned into the railing. His breathing was a bit heavier lately, but that didn't stop him from manifesting his remaining energy into doing his will.

"What is it now, Flamel?" Machiavelli said, still climbing the steps. "I don't know what gibberish you're spouting, but there is no—"

The Italian finally looked up, and his words died in his throat.

"It can't be . . ."

The alchemist looked down at Machiavelli emotionlessly, and he didn't seem to acknowledge familiarity with the man at all. Then he spoke, his voice flat and cold.

"You owe me, Niccolo."

"Edward, how—?" Machiavelli's stone-cold eyes flickered with alarm, the only true emotion he showed that entire night. "Dee, he said—but you're supposed to be—"

"Dead," Edward finished. "Dee said the same thing."

Now, everything that Dee said on the phone suddenly made sense. Edward Elric's sudden appearance corresponded with what happened back in Ojai. Who else on this entire planet could even humiliate Dee on the level that he did? Who else could so masterfully foil the English doctor's plans? And who, in the entire existence of Shadowrealms, had the potential to frighten even the Elder Race, gods of their own right?

Elric had always been a dangerous setback to their plans, ever since his meeting with them almost a century ago. And now, he'd found his way to the 21st century. Despite their differences, Machiavelli knew Edward, and the blond loathed the idea of immortality. He must have found some other means to time travel.

"W-what are you doing here?" Machiavelli spluttered, losing his composure for a fraction of a second.

"I'm not here to reacquaint with you," said Edward. "I'm here to settle a debt. All those years ago . . . You owe me, Machiavelli. Pay it this once, and you don't have to do anything else for me. It's all I ask."

The Italian replied slowly, "And what would you have me to do?"

"Let us go."

"I'm sorry, that's impossible."

"I know it has been eighty-eight years, but I was hoping you'd still be a man of your word. I've helped you in the past—now it's your turn to help me."

"You're on the wrong side, Elric. You think that Flamel hasn't committed any atrocities? Has he told you what he does with the candidates that prove to be false?"

"I couldn't care less about what he does; I'm not on his side, their side, or anyone's side. I'm here for a singular purpose, and it's not to fight you. It's not to be _used_ for anyone's gain." He shot a look at Flamel. "I only want to return to my own time and be out of your way. I'm going to do whatever it takes."

"Then why don't you come with me?" Machiavelli suggested. "I can help you return."

Edward paused for a second, as if mulling over the offer.

"No," he said. "In the end, I'll just be used for your Elders' plan. I'll be dragged into some other plot that I have no business being in. Especially if the bastard Dee is involved."

"You don't have to do anything. Consider it my debt paid."

"But you will still take Flamel and the siblings."

"Of course. These are my orders."

Edward tapped the railing with his fist. "Dammit," he cursed to the side.

He briefly locked eyes with Flamel, but the Alchemyst couldn't read what the look was supposed to mean. By that point, Edward had already averted his gaze. Nicholas turned back to Machiavelli whose behaviour, again, surprised him.

Machiavelli was wary on his feet, and the way he looked at Edward was reminiscent of respect. What sort of history did the Italian have with Elric? Did he possibly think that Edward could somehow inflict some damage on him, while looking like he'd been through hell and back? If that were the case, what reasons did he have to be terrified of Edward?

"You're hurt," said Machiavelli through the gloom. Dee's words came crashing back at him. "And Dee was the one who made it so. He went too far again."

Edward looked down at his arm. Slivers of blood were dripping down his skin underneath his coat sleeve and falling onto the pavement. The pain had dulled so much by now that Edward didn't even notice he was still exsanguinating.

The realization sparked a distortion of his surroundings, and Edward found his vision tilting to the right. Things blurred and blacked and he saw himself falling to the ground for a second— before he instinctively caught onto the railing and steadied himself.

He couldn't do this for much longer. He needed to end this conversation.

"Did Dee forget to mention how he went about torturing me?" Edward murmured faintly, his voice raspy. "No, of course he wouldn't."

"You can come with me," Machiavelli tried again. "Edward, please, you won't survive long without medical attention. I know Dee, and he will make you suffer and die in the most painful and most slow of ways. I would not wish this fate on you."

Flamel watched the exchange in slight astonishment. He'd never seen Machiavelli act this way toward anyone—he appeared almost human, as if he and Edward were not enemies once upon a time, but acquaintances. Perhaps even friends. Edward wasn't the least bit intimidated in the Italian's presence, and Flamel knew the man well. Niccolo Machiavelli was a formidable opponent and he _should_ be feared.

Convincing Edward to join his side was the only thing Machiavelli could manage as Flamel seemed adamant on opposing him. He'd already sensed a change in the atmosphere, and he'd smelled the scent of vanilla ice cream, the telltale scent of someone's aura. He'd guessed it was the girl's—Sophie—and the magic was reminiscent of Air Magic, something the Witch of Endor specialized in. The fog was already so dense that he could no longer see the Shadow or the Twins. And that meant even his men down below couldn't catch them either.

"I know a lot more than you give me credit for," said Edward. "You may have honest intentions, but your Elders certainly don't. The way back to my brother is not through you. It's through them."

Edward didn't have to gesture or nod toward who he meant, because Machiavelli had longed guessed his decision. There was no harm in trying. Despite knowing this, he couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed.

"I see," said the Italian. His voice was dulled in the fog but now colder and sterner than ever. "Then I suppose I would have to capture you along with Flamel and the Twins. Dee couldn't handle it, so I can just imagine the look on his face when I bring you in. My Elders will be pleased."

"Not today, Niccolo. Maybe some other time."

The fog was so dense now that Edward and Flamel had completely evaporated from his view. Machiavelli twisted this way and that, and for a fleeting moment, he'd really thought he lost his captives. But he hadn't survived this long being incompetent—he got what he wanted in the end, he always did. Machiavelli composed himself and radioed for his forces to move in.

"After today, Elric," he shouted into the night, heavy boots pounding in the background, "we are enemies! You may escape tonight, but my debt has been paid. I will no longer show you any mercy." His cultivated French accent slipped into a harsher undertone of Italian. "Next time, I will find you. And next time, such parlour tricks will not save you."

His radio crackled, and one of his men reported: "_They are not on the premises. We will spread out in a hundred yard radius around the basilica._"

"A lot changes in eighty-eight years!" Machiavelli continued to shout. "The world moves on and trust me when I say you are far less safe in this continent than any other. Mark my words, Elric. It's a new century, and things are different."

He hadn't expected Edward to answer; he'd thought that they had escaped by now. But remarkably the boy's voice rang loud and clear inside the fog, a perfect flow of Italian, generating from nowhere but absolutely everywhere at the same time:

"Like how it's supposed to be. Right?"

Machiavelli dashed the remainder of the steps and emerged at the entrance of the church. Up here, there was no fog—and no one in sight. Like Dee, he had lost Flamel, the Twins, and Elric. He twisted around in the spot, scanning his complete 360, before determining that indeed he had failed the capture.

This was the only real moment in his entire life where he would sympathize with Dee.

And he hated it.

"Stand down," he spoke bitterly into his radio. "The offenders are not here. Round the men and have them converge in the streets. We will continue our search from there."

"_Yessir._"

Machiavelli lowered the radio, and cursing, unintentionally crushed the device under his fist. His masters weren't going to like this.

* * *

><p>"No, I can walk," Edward protested as Scathach offered to carry him. "It's Sophie you need to be worrying about. She's on the verge of collapse."<p>

"Am not," the girl said, even though she was lying limply in Josh's arms.

"The only one who can complain is me," Josh said, gritting his teeth as he supported his sister. He wasn't about to comment on the fact that she weighed a ton, because that was rude and totally uncalled for in these circumstances, but already he'd been exhausted from running so much. And he was frustrated. Really frustrated.

"Look, Ed, stop being a baby. You can lean on my arm," said Scatty. "Josh, are you okay with carrying Sophie?"

"I'm fine! Let's just hurry—"

Flamel shoved all of them to the side just in time for a gendarme to pass them. The policemen were mere shadows in the yellow-white fog, and it was clear they were holding guns. Machiavelli may have been a danger to them, but right now these men were also. It was harder to fight in the fog than out in the open. The only thing one could do was hide and avoid the armed force.

"Let me down," Sophie repeated. "We can move faster that way."

"Absolutely not," said Josh. "We'll be even slower. You can't walk at all."

And in response, Sophie passed out.

"This way," said Flamel, and he got up from his crouch and started running again.

The others had to hurry in order to stay in sight of him, because the fog only allowed a two metre seeing distance of others. Josh had to struggle especially with his load. Scatty, being a Next Generation Elder, simply dragged Edward like he was nothing. Josh secretly envied her strength. Edward didn't appreciate being treated like baggage.

All around them, the French police swept past like ghosts in the wind. They kept murmuring the words _brouillard, brouillard_ as if they were surprised at the sudden manifestation of fog in the area. Although to be fair, it had happened in the blink of an eye, and the density was much thicker than any normal fog.

Josh had been against it the entire time, but now he had to admit that Sophie did a fairly good job in conjuring the fog. Still, that didn't mean he liked what she was doing to herself, using magic again and again, completely sapping her energy. This was another reason why he wanted to be Awakened. It's so that he could take away her self-proclaimed responsibility of saving everyone.

He didn't get how Nicholas couldn't summon the fog himself. Well, sure, he was busy distracting Machiavelli, but if he'd just allowed Edward to step forth earlier . . .

_You're being selfish, Josh. Look at Edward. He's injured, and you wanted _him_ to be the distraction? Flamel probably didn't know Edward even knew Machiavelli anyway. So much for that._

That's right. Edward _knew_ Machiavelli.

How?

If Edward had met Dee once in his life, then it was likely he had done the same with Machiavelli. As for the details, Josh decided to leave it for later, when the blond was treated.

Josh was so wrapped up in his thoughts he didn't even notice the atmosphere thin out in front of him. When he had registered the change in environment, his qualms momentarily vanished. He was standing in front of a tiny art gallery, a café, and a souvenir shop. The air was clear and crisp, and as Josh turned to look behind him, he was met by a thick curtain of misty white. Surrounding the _Sacré-Coeur_ was literally a wall of fog. Magic was indeed incredible.

"We should be a safe distance away now," stated Nicholas.

"Here, let me take her," said Scatty, reaching for Sophie.

Josh automatically flinched back, his protective instincts getting the better of him. Sophie was _his_ sister. He should be the one to protect her.

And yet, he was tired. So, so very tired.

"She'll be safe with me," Scatty reassured him, and Josh relented, passing his sister over into the Shadow's arms. Sophie barely reacted with the transfer. She stayed unmoving.

"She's going to be okay, right?" Josh said.

"As soon as she gets some sleep," answered Flamel instead. "She's been using too much magic, which has sapped the remaining of her physical strength."

"Because of you. _You_ ordered her to conjure that fog."

"What else could I do, Josh?"

_Not much_, the Gold Twin admitted reluctantly.

"You could have done _something_," Josh said aloud. "There had to have been something you could do."

"Without killing anyone? I don't think so."

"Are we just going to stand here all day?" Edward cut in sharply. "Sorry for being crude, but we need to get moving."

"Ed's right," said Scathach. "Josh, can you handle him? He needs someone to help him walk. It shouldn't be too exhausting of a chore."

"Wait, so now I'm a chore," said Edward.

Josh sighed. "Yeah, I heard you. Come on, Ed." He grabbed the blond by the arm and started dragging him after Scatty and Flamel.

"Hold on," said Edward, pulling him back. "Josh, slow down—hey!"

Josh whipped around. "What?!"

Edward was rubbing his left leg, his face torn up in a grimace. Josh's annoyance vanished immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"It can't be helped," Edward said through clenched teeth. "The moisture in that fog affected the mobility of my joints. Speed is something I can't manage so easily right now."

"Why's that? You have sensitive bones?"

Edward looked at his auto-mail hand, which was trembling violently. He clenched it into a fist in order to stop its movements, but the action didn't help.

His auto-mail didn't usually malfunction like this. The state of his body must have directly affected his nerve endings. He'd gone through so much pain in the last few hours that the majority of his nerves had dulled, and therefore the control over his prosthetic had diminished as well. But he must have been overthinking this. Auto-mail acted just as a flesh-and-blood limb would: if he pushed his body to the brink of its limit with no rest in-between, they would start shaking.

"More like a lack of," said the alchemist. "But I'll live."

"Hey, hold on," said Josh, catching him by his arm. "If you're not fit to move, you shouldn't walk."

"I can walk, I just can't walk _fast_."

"But you're bleeding too."

"All the more reason to hurry, yes?" said the alchemist, punctuating his last word.

Josh huffed. This guy really was stubborn.

From at the front, Flamel had stopped the group and seemed to be waiting for something. Suddenly, a police officer materialized around the corner and came racing straight for Nicholas. The Alchemyst, however, shot forward and slammed a hand into the man's chest, his mint green aura blazing. The officer with the fuzzy moustache crumpled to the ground.

"What the—?" Josh exclaimed. "Is he . . . Did you kill him?"

"He's just unconscious. I overloaded his aura. He should be fine when he wakes up."

"That was completely unnecessary," Edward reprimanded. Years of time served in the military helped him determine needed actions from what was a waste of time. "Do you _want_ Machiavelli finding us?"

"This man would have alerted him if I hadn't stepped in," Flamel argued.

"I could have taken him," Scatty stated.

"Just to be sure, let's get out of here quickly."

The group continued through the streets of Montmartre, with Josh seriously second-guessing Nicholas' intentions. Sure, his aim didn't seem all that obviously wicked like Dee's, but he'd been neglecting to fill them in on his plans for a while now. He just dragged them to places, city after city, leaving behind destruction of an unimaginable scale.

It was easy to see where Dee and his allies lay, but Nicholas was difficult to place. He worked for no Elder, Dark or otherwise, and he had no boss to report back to. He was, suffice to say, his own master, which meant that he made his own decisions, of which had the potential to be dangerous. Josh didn't know the extent of Flamel's goal, and he didn't think the Alchemyst would tell him any time soon.

Josh was beginning to trust the man less and less. The terrible treatment of his sister wasn't helping much.

For another half an hour, the group scaled the city from within the shadows. The Parisian streets were close to desolate during the nighttime, and the few early-morning workers minded their businesses, intent on getting to their workplace, not ogle at strange foreigners in the dark. The streets now were a huge contrast to Paris during the day.

"Hey," Josh panted from the back of the group. He had a hand pressed against a nearby wall to support his worn-out body. His charge, Edward, was sitting down on the ground, his eyes closed and scrunched together, as if he was battling a headache.

"Come on, you guys," said Scatty. "It's no time to be lazy." She was still carrying Sophie as easily as wearing a jacket of feathers.

"We need to rest," Josh said. "Not everyone is a Next Generation Elder like you. Just for a while. Please?"

The Shadow sighed.

"Nicholas," she called. "I think Josh is right. We need to stop and rest for a bit. And it's not just them who needs the rest," she added, upon seeing Flamel ready to object. "You're exhausted, admit it. A little break would do some good for all of us."

Flamel's shoulders slouched forward. "I suppose you are right. I know a metro café nearby. We can stop there."

"Ed, get up, we're moving," said Josh, poking the blond in the shoulder.

Edward jerked awake, and he bent over, groaning, as a nauseating sensation washed over him.

"I really need some sleep," he said, massaging his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

"I know," Josh said, lifting Edward to his feet. "We'll get you some water at the café. Hopefully some fluid will help fight the lightheaded-ness."

"Screw water. I haven't eaten in . . . God, I don't remember the last time I ate."

Josh sighed. How could Edward possibly be thinking of food rather than paying attention to his critical condition? Sometimes that guy just didn't act human. Superhuman, maybe.

* * *

><p>"So you're telling me," said Edward, palm flat against the table, "you don't <em>actually<em> know where this safe house is, and you _actually_ don't know where you're going. You've just been taking us in circles."

"That's not necessarily true," said Flamel defensively. The truth was, Paris had changed a lot in the years he'd been away. The entire city was once reconstructed, and now Flamel felt like a tourist in his own home. The roads were all wrong, and the buildings weren't familiar at all.

"You're crossing your arms in a gesture of self-protection. You're lying."

"How can you possibly—?" Flamel looked down at himself, and un-crossed his arms. A look of irritation flitted across his face. "Edward, just . . . just drink your water."

"You made up that safe house lie to get our hopes up. You needed to give us a reason to follow you. And hey! It worked."

"You are five hundred years too early to be questioning me, boy."

"But am I wrong?"

Flamel narrowed his eyes wordlessly. Edward glared back with equal intensity.

The Twins of Legend watched the two alchemists banter back and forth, their eyes darting left and right like a tennis match. The both of them were seated next to Edward, who was surrounded by five bottles of water, three of which have already been emptied.

The water had helped the blond restore the fluid he had lost, and for now, postponed his need to seek a doctor. Edward was on his forth bottle. The way he argued with Flamel, it was almost as if he'd never been skewered by a cane in the first place. Granted, he was still pale and exhausted—but who out of the entire group _wasn't_? At least he'd stopped shaking.

"There's got to be someone we can call for help," said Josh, breaking in. "The Witch maybe. Scatty, would she know of any immortals in Paris?"

The Celtic warrior thought about it for a second. "She would, yes."

"Does she have a phone?"

"Knowing Grandmother? I doubt it."

"Oh, she has one," Edward interjected, but the way he said it made Josh wonder what convinced the Witch of Endor of getting one to begin with.

"How do you know that?" asked Sophie.

"I installed it for her," Edward replied sourly. "But it's not as if she knows how to use it. That lady wasted two hours of my life."

"Okaaay," said Josh slowly. "So she has a phone. Maybe there's someone else we can contact. Does the Witch have any friends? Sophie?"

Sophie closed her eyes and concentrated on the Witch's memory—searching for anything that may satisfy Josh's inquiry—but she shook her head. It was all so jumbled and confusing. She couldn't call forth anything useful.

"I'm sorry. I . . . I can't. What I do know is that everyone knows her. She doesn't have many friends, but if we can get in contact with someone in town . . ."

Josh huffed. "How about the store next to hers?"

"It's too late there," said Flamel. "All the stores are closed."

"Hm, no, I don't think so," said Scatty, a finger placed thoughtfully on her chin. "Remember when we left? The entire town was in chaos. I doubt the locals will get to sleep tonight. The entire neighbourhood must be in frenzy. If we call now, I bet someone will pick up."

"It's worth trying," said Sophie.

Flamel met each of their eyes, considering it. Finally, he said, "All right. We'll try the local press. They should be hotwired to receive some more insight on the explosion."

"_Ojai Valley News, _646-1476," Sophie said immediately. "I remember that much . . . or the Witch does." She frowned, running over the various memories and ideas in her head. She wondered how she managed to recall such a simple memory so quickly, as opposed to before when she was purposely trying to conjure the Witch's memories. Josh always said she thought too much. Maybe he was right. Still, all these memories that weren't hers . . . It scared her. Was she someone else now? Was she really Sophie anymore?

"Sophie?"

Sophie's head snapped up. Everyone was watching her.

"I'm fine," she said a bit too quickly. "Just fine."

"If you say so," said Flamel, eyeing her strangely. "Ah, our orders are up. I'll be back shortly." He made his way over to the café counter to pay for the hot chocolates he ordered for the Twins.

Josh reached for his sister's hand tentatively. "Are you really fine? What were you thinking about?"

"Me, I guess," said Sophie, and she forced out a smile. "Silly, really."

"You're lying too," Edward muttered, watching his empty water bottle.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." Edward looked up. "Hey, should we really be sitting here? Isn't the city crawling with police?"

"Nicholas said we should be relatively safe here."

The all-night café they were sitting in was at the backend of the Gare du Nord Metro station. It was so average and mundane-looking that it was easily overlooked. The five of them were the only people in the café, other than the sole worker at the counter, a guy named Roux.

"He lies," said Josh, frowning at his sister in disapproval. "He didn't mention the effects of using your magic until it was too late. I'm starting to question his motives."

"That's something you keep to yourself, Newman," said Edward. "We all have our doubts, but it's safer to keep them as doubts, not mutiny."

"And how would you know?"

The alchemist picked at his sleeve. The coat was in a ruined state. It was an old, rattled thing. It'd been through countless abuses, and yet Edward had seen fit to keep it. He didn't know why.

"I just do. Go along with it. It's the best we can do."

Back at the counter, Flamel was patting his pockets for loose euros, but he couldn't seem to produce any. All he had was his Visa card.

"I seem to be all out. The card is fine, isn't it? Can you ring up twenty for me and some cash as well?"

Roux wasn't even trying to hide his suspicion. "That is strictly against our policy, _monsieur_."

Roux had seen enough strange people in his lifetime of working here, but these five newest visitors topped them all.

_None_ of them seemed the least bit related to each other. Sure the two American twins were alike enough to _be_ twins, but that other blond guy . . . He looked like he recently starred in a 1940's war movie. And there was that suspicious red liquid on his jacket as well. The old man here asking for some spare change looked like their grandfather, although Roux doubted it. He spoke with an older, more gentlemanly form of French that no other local had. The red-haired teenager wearing combat boots and all black, she was the only one who was on alert. Alert for what? All five of them were matted and dirty. Did they go crawling through the Catacombs?

"We're all tired here," Scatty broke in. "Can you spare us just this once?"

Roux wasn't going to admit he was intimidated by her, but the hardness of her eyes made him double check on that.

"Just this once," he said, and he swiped the credit card. He also did them the favour of generating the euros Flamel had requested. He'd noticed that the card was American, even though the owner of the card was clearly French. "Have a good day."

Flamel grabbed the tray of hot chocolate and thanked the man. "_Merci_."

Roux nodded absently and reached under the counter for his math textbook. Both the red-haired girl and the old man had moved away to a secluded part of the café, talking in hushed tones. From the sound of it, and their gestures exchanged, it was clear that whatever matter they were speaking about was urgent. Roux hadn't even realized he'd been staring until the red-head looked up, forcing him to look back down at his textbook.

"Take this," said Flamel in Latin, shoving the tray of hot chocolate into the Warrior's hands. "I'm going to step out for a bit, contact the Witch. Stay here and watch them."

"All alone, Nicholas? I don't think so. It's dangerous out there. What if you get caught?"

"Trust me, I won't. We'll meet up someplace every hour. La Maison Rose, perhaps?"

"What about Montmartre? Machiavelli would least suspect that."

"Whichever meeting location it may be," said Nicholas, "just remember that the Twins are our priority now. We cannot allow them to fall into the clutches of the Dark Elders. Promise me you will protect them."

Scatty shot him a cross look. "I think that goes without saying."

"Then we are at an agreement."

He stepped out before Scatty could say more. She watched him disappear into the pre-dawn night, and then she rejoined the main table. Scatty picked a chair, dragged it behind her, swung it around, and straddled it backwards, laying her arms across the back rest.

"Nicholas has gone out to call my grandmother," she said. "He should be back—hopefully—soon."

Sophie reached for her much awaited hot chocolate. She'd never tried European hot chocolate before, but she'd heard it was a lot stronger than its North American counterpart.

"What did he say to you?"

"He says if he doesn't come back by noon, I have permission to drag you two after me and train you."

"What about me?" asked Edward, setting down a miniature plastic giraffe on the table.

"He didn't say anything about you. You're free to leave, I guess—"

"That's great," said Edward, starting to get up.

"—_after_ we get you medical attention."

Edward sat back down. "Dammit. Better not be a stupid hospital."

"We can't even show our faces to one. You don't have any legit credentials, do you?"

"That I don't," Edward agreed.

"See?" Scatty eyed his strange plastic animal that seemed to appear from out of nowhere. "Where did you get that anyway?"

"What? This?" Edward pointed to his plastic giraffe. "From the bottles."

"How did you—?"

"Under the table. Alchemy. It's a pretty simple transmutation."

"_Why?_" Scatty raised a hand. "Right, never mind. Forget I asked."

"It was hard enough to get away from _Sacré-Coeur_," said Josh. "Is it really going to be easy getting out of the city? I'm just not sure with all these police around . . ."

"Relax, Josh," the Warrior reassured him. "You have me, after all. We'll be all right."

"But what _if_ we get caught?"

"Then you're handed over to Machiavelli, and the Dark Elders would have you do whatever it is they want you to do."

"That's horrible."

"Exactly why I'm not going to let that happen."

"So what, we're just going to sit here until Flamel comes back?" Edward interjected.

"Impatient, aren't you?" Scatty said, amusement creeping into her tone. "The answer is yes. We aren't going to move for a while."

"Fine." Edward let his head thump down on his good arm. "Then wake me up later."

"Sleep would be good for you. You look terrible." Scatty looked at Sophie. "So do you. You should be careful of how much you use your powers. Don't want you burning up, right?"

"Yeah . . . About that. Why is it so important I don't go overboard?"

"Spontaneous combustion. You basically burst into flames. No one wants to tempt that, not even me, and I'm immortal."

"Isn't that just an urban legend?" Josh said skeptically.

"It's no urban legend," said Scathach, her expression dark. "I've seen it happen so many times . . ." Her voice caught, and from the sound of it, it was almost as if she had watched close people fall victim to the same doom, people she cared about. "Sophie, promise me you won't try any magic tonight. Combustion can happen in a split second; you won't even feel it coming. Promise me."

"Wait, so Flamel knew about this," said Josh, his voice rising with anger. "He knew and he failed to mention this."

"Of course."

"And he didn't think it was worth mentioning?! What else is he hiding, huh? Anything else I need to know about this . . . _gift_?"

"Josh, shut the hell up," mumbled Edward, his words muffled by his sleeve. "You're getting too loud. We don't need to traumatize Roux, do we?"

"I thought you were sleeping," Josh bit out.

"I can't with your yelling."

Josh growled under his breath, but he did quiet somewhat. "Flamel isn't winning himself any popularity points by keeping things from us. He should just come out with it!"

"Nicholas is keeping certain truths from you to _protect_ you," said Scatty. "He's not trying to make you angry or . . . or kill you. He wouldn't. If I can trust him, you should too. He's keeping the both of you safe."

"Safe? We were _safe_ before he showed up."

"Josh, you know that's not true. The Dark Elders would have found you eventually, and if they played their words right, you would have believed that _their_ side was righteous. Without Nicholas, there would have been no one there to save you from their lies. And you know, Josh, that you would have believed them."

Josh clenched his hands, too angry to say anything.

"If I had the power," the Shadow continued, "I would Awaken you myself, but it can only be done by an Elder. It's a shame the burden falls on Sophie. But that's only now. There are plenty other chances for you to be Awakened. You just have to be patient."

Josh had waited far too long for the opportunity. Despite everything he'd experienced, and what he'd gone through, he wanted the powers Sophie had. He'd gone close once, but Dee had interrupted them and killed off one of the few neutral Elders still remaining—one of the few Elders that would even _think_ about Awakening him.

The second time Dee interrupted them, the Englishman had actually _offered_ to Awakened him. And then they were yet again interrupted by Edward, who said some similar things, except his morals were completely the opposite. Josh was, to put it simply, torn.

Suddenly, Edward sat up, stretched, and gave a great big yawn. He played with his plastic giraffe, positioning it at the centre of the table. He rotated it until he was satisfied with its arrangement. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms, smacking the sleepiness out of his mouth.

"Do you see them?" he said.

"See what?" Josh said.

"The policemen." Edward watched the giraffe curiously, and Josh realized that when he was turning the thing, he was trying to get a pin on a reflection. "They're standing just outside. Don't look up."

"How'd you know?" said Sophie.

"They've been watching us for a while. Don't you get that feeling, as well? Like eyes boring into your back. I guess it's more experience, really."

"What do we do?"

"We get up," said Scatty. "Slowly. Don't alert them of any strange behaviour. Just act like we're going to the counter to order something else . . ."

Scatty rose first and she made her way to the counter. Sophie was next. She was shaking slightly, but she managed to act casual enough. Both she and Scatty were facing the counter so that that their identities were concealed from the policemen behind them.

Josh watched Edward go next. The alchemist looked so impossibly natural—Josh, if he didn't know better, would have found something incredibly off about this.

Edward discreetly motioned for him to follow with a slight tip of his head, unrecognizable to the policemen, but enough to alert Josh. Josh stood, but he accidentally knocked against the chair behind him. He jumped a bit too much, and his subconscious guilt/fear caused him to look in the direction of the policemen. They locked eyes, and for a split second, Josh felt his heart stop.

_Ah crap._

* * *

><p><strong>So in the end, this chapter ended up longer than the last one . . . Which is why I cut it here. I always get carried away when I write, and I don't really have an idea of how long it will be. I hope you're not too annoyed with me because of this . . . I promise next chapter will be something. Can't say what's going to happen, but . . . we'll just see.<strong>

**Review, maybe?**


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